


Bones

by ThatGirlSix



Series: He Is Glad, They Are His Own [6]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Brotherhood, Family, Gen, Warning: Implied Violence, Warning: Strong Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5239346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatGirlSix/pseuds/ThatGirlSix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of demons in the Tracy family closet that were never meant to see the light of day. It's too bad Alan's right. It's Moving Day, and the secrets want out to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scott and Jeff

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers:** _Thunderbirds_ is the brainchild of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson and their teams. Bow low and grateful at the altar of their brilliance. Tequila and a crisp twenty should do it. Any bastardized quotes/lyrics you find belong to the people they belong to who aren't me. Like all my stories, this is **rated T/M** for military grade F-bombs and some implied violence. There are no TAG spoilers, but it is TOS and film compliant with my other Tbirds stories. If you haven't read my other stories, do know you'll miss out on hints and backstory of what to look forward to now. This story takes place about eight-ish years after _He Is, They Are_ and two years after _Picnic_ , so age everyone appropriately. 
> 
> For the first time in a while, this one is a multi-chapter (ten) fic. Welcome to the party. Stay awhile. 
> 
> As always, thank you for your time. You guys make my day.

_You've got bones in your closet._  
_You've got ghosts in your town._  
_Ain't no doubt, yeah, they're gonna come out._  
_They're waitin' for the sun to go down._

_You can't hide from your demons._  
_Feel 'em all lurkin' around._  
_You're runnin' scared 'cause you know they're out there._  
_They're waitin' for the sun to go down._  
_— Little Big Town_

***  
(Scott)**

It wasn't for the first time, but Scott sank into the overstuffed sofa with the distinct thought that Dad's office was probably the single worst place on the island to hold rescue debriefings. Seriously. Poolside with umbrella drinks and cabana girls in seashell bras and hula skirts would be less distracting.

Not that Scott was exactly _complaining._ Just yawning. A lot. 0236 hours a lot.

Bad couch.

When Dad finally realized the weird of the mural (especially with Alan sketched in like a photo inset in a magazine), remodeling the whole house became an obsession. He turned the office into something so soft and breezy — bad couch — it begged to be slept in. The bright, retro green and orange plastics were gone, replaced with soothing blue and sand clouds that practically sighed _Om_. Sure, it was great for Dad while he bit his nails over the long hours for their returns, but wow, was it bad for trying to stay awake long enough to get a word out. Gordon had suggested it was Dad's way of forcing them to be as quick as possible or to lull them away from arguing about the details.

Bad plan. Bad.

Yawn.

Yawning so much it led to … Yeah. There it was.

And then it was gone.

Zen-mode had nearly set in when Alan dragged himself across the room and settled down all painfully slow old man on the other end of the couch. His pale, bare torso glowed a stark contrast against the dark blue microfiber, which color-coordinated with the remnants of bruises from the accident. His jaw burned red where the understandably frustrated civilian took a cheap shot at him tonight. That would leave a nice, ugly contrast, too. Damn.

Whoosh. See? There went Scott's Zen. Gone. Buh-bye.

Sleep deprivation and soon-to-be bruise number Scott-lost-count got him where it hurt most. How many times had Alan stood in the middle of this office and screamed at Dad, nearly begging to get the chance to have bruises of his own? Now, though, the boy who had been so hurt by most of what the old office stood for was deeply hidden beneath another six inches of height, broader shoulders, and well-trained muscles. Bruised muscles. _If I have any say in it, he's never getting in a race car again_ muscles. He didn't bother hiding it behind the frumpy clothes he used to either, probably from the knowledge his grown body couldn't stop Scott from seeing that much smaller boy sinking into the cushions any more than it worked on Dad. Hell, these days, he wore the bruises with pride.

It didn't matter how new and ridiculously huge the couch was. It didn't matter that the ugly mural was gone or how there was nothing in the office to conjure up memories of the scarier, immature days of IR. Alan shouldn't be on this couch. Not like this.

Wow, he was feeling maudlin tonight. Sleepy and done for, at any rate.

Bad couch.

Alan yawned over on his end and tipped to the side, all _TIMBER!_ and ready to order up whatever Rip Van Winkle had with a hint of lemon and melatonin on the side.

 _Such_ a bad place for debrief.

Scott scootched his hand under Alan's shower-wet head and tried to lift him back up to a sitting position, but all that weight and muscle worked diligently against him. Rather than risk cricking Alan's neck or making his lower back issue any worse, he let him drop, smooth and controlled, into the cushions. He flicked Alan's ear instead. Alan paid him back by inching closer until his head dug into Scott's hip. Brat. Scott couldn't do much beyond use Alan's biceps for an elbow rest. If it weren't for the jaw (and back and neck and everything pretty much jaw down), he would've gone for the kid's temple and dug in. Biceps were better tonight. This morning. Whenever. Scott was a good big brother.

"Hang in there, man," Scott warned the both of them through a yawn. "Bed after brief. You know the rules."

Raising his Tag Heuer to eye level without bothering to open his eyes, Alan mumbled, "I've got at least ten minutes before the others make it down here. I'm good."

"Not even."

"Kyrano and Dad are working Gordon out of a charley horse and foot thing. Ten's underestimating." Before Scott could open his mouth to ask, Alan added, "And don't go up there to check on him. It'll take them even longer, and we'll never get out of here. That guy got him good in just the right spot, but Gords says he's fine, so he's fine."

"Which scale, ours or his?"

"It's barely a two on the Gordon scale."

"You believe him?"

Alan nodded sharply, his authority on the Gordon Scale clearly not to be questioned. "Let it go."

"What about you? That guy decked you pretty hard."

"The shower sucked, but hey." Alan didn't finish the thought, so whatever came after _Hey_ was obvious only to him. He adjusted his shoulder along the crevice between cushions and put his hand flat under his unbruised cheek for a pillow. "Tin-tin stocked my medicine cabinet with valerian tea if it keeps me up. I'm good. Now shut up. I've still got nine minutes."

And just like that, Alan was asleep. He even snored.

"Don't you just hate how he can do that?"

Without looking toward Virgil or the door arch where his voice came from, Scott dropped his head back and closed his eyes. "Almost as much as I hate how you can just show up without making a sound, freak. One of these times, I really am gonna get you a bell to wear around your neck."

"Give up tactical advantage when it comes to the Terrible Twosome? I don't think so. Gordon's been bored lately without his partner, and now that Alan's been upgraded to restricted duty, I'm rigging my door and sleeping with a loaded Super Soaker under my pillow."

Scott waffled his fingers over his stomach and grinned up at the ceiling. "We live in dangerous times, little brother."

He listened for the sounds of Virgil taking over the cushy desk chair, because obviously Tracy Three was smart enough not to leave room for anyone next to him. Scott couldn't've slept yet if he tried, no matter how much he might want to. He'd never had the ability to crash through the adrenaline like Alan or John, but he could lay there and rest, hovering in that quiet space where things were hazy enough to mimic those minutes right before sleep. Sounds got fuzzy for a bit so that he couldn't quite measure the time passing, but he heard a few soft clicks on the wireless keyboard, John's greeting to Virgil, and the two of them start to chat about the non-rescue parts of their days.

This was the way it should be. No meditation or bruises required.

Sure, Scott loved the rescues and the purpose it gave him to know he could do something good for the world, but he loved this part, too. Being a part of a family that loved each other unconditionally, never having to doubt if someone loved him enough to carry on a conversation that wasn't about _How was work?_ or _What do I need to get from the store_? He liked knowing he would never be truly alone in this world (or in Alan and John's case, out of the world). Different military or school separations, sometimes under inadequate conditions, had taught them all to be able to communicate about everything but work long before they all worked together to the point of not needing to ever ask that work question. He treasured that about each of them. How many people got that chance to talk about nothing with the people they loved these days? How many did it with the ease his family seemed to do?

They were talking about Freddy Mercury, by the way. Virgil was on a Queen kick, which started two weeks ago almost exactly on cue. He had a seasonal thing when it came to his record collection, marked by a tendency to listen to a particular artist at the same time of year every year. It was apparently some sense memory thing with him. There were always variations and new artists to mix in and around, but some things were constant. Queen was an October/November/December thing. Always.

John started talking Brian May and his astrophysics papers (which John could quote verbatim off the top of his head, nerd). Virgil countered with Mercury and graphic design, and just like that the geekathon took off full rocket.

Scott, since it wasn't his turn to listen to it, was more than happy to hand over Virgil's stress release to John and let their conversation fade back out. The last thing he needed was _Radio Ga Ga_ worming into his ear right before bed with a day sleep ahead of them. It would be hard enough with the sun and jungle bugs telling them what to do.

Lazing back into the not-exactly sleep zone, Scott didn't notice when Dad came into the room. Part of him was disappointed about that. As much as they had all struggled to remind friends, acquaintances, teachers, and strangers all that Jeff Tracy was just a father, a completely normal man, there was something incredible about watching that completely normal man walk into a room. Dad had this way of commanding attention, as if he was a magnet drawing everything and everyone toward him. But this walk wasn't the same walk everyone outside their family saw. This one didn't terrify his children like they were boardroom peons. Instead it was a walk of strength and comfort they had needed and soaked up their entire lives. Maybe it was that he missed how Mom's own walk had countered Dad's, breezing kindness and joy at everyone around her, her smile for Jeff and Jeff alone something envied and inspired. Sometimes Scott craved to feel that sense of magnetized warmth.

Instead he got Alan jerking awake and flinging his arm up into Scott's throat when Dad tried to wake them both. With the way his head extended back, the contact with his Adam's apple might as well have been some Vulcan Matrix ninja chop in a dark alley in a rainstorm (those kinds of fights always happen in a downpour in the movies). Scott choked on the ball of air driven out of his lungs and coughed long enough that Virgil came over from the desk to pound him on the back. Alan thoughtfully rolled out of the way, his eyes still too dazed at the wake up call to know anything other than _MOVE!_

The corners of Dad's mouth worked up and in, flat and out, like he couldn't decide if he should laugh or worry about what Alan might've been dreaming about to wake up that way. They all knew better than to try to wake Scott or Gordon, but Alan wasn't usually a cause for nocturnal black eyes. Maybe, if he wasn't seeing stars, Scott would worry, too, but eh, stars and sleep deprivation. Besides, Scott had worked hard over the last few years to give Alan his space, and he'd been rewarded with Alan coming to him when he needed it most as long as Scott didn't push.

On the floor and flat on his back, Alan pushed at Scott's knee and gripped it hard to apologize. It was gentle in contrast to the neon sharp grin he blinded their father with. "Hi." He might as well have worn footy pajamas and knuckled his eyes. All he was missing was Bugs Bunny.

Scott took the knee apology for what it was, but Dad glanced a _Is he kidding me, this kid?_ at Scott before he leveled a look at Alan. He didn't bother to or have to say anything. Jeff Tracy had raised five boys, along with a helping hand at another boy and a girl; he could wait out an entire silent monastery and win. He was closer to a smile than before, but he crossed his arms over his chest.

"What?" Alan asked, pure _Daddy, I'm adorable_ innocence but with an edge to it that made Scott's jaw twitch. Oh, boy.

Dad raised his eyebrows. Alan stared back, but Scott saw his eyes go from amused to _Zoinks!_ pretty quickly.

Scott leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and glared down at his brother. Dad was looking for a particular answer, and Alan was definitely avoiding giving it to him. Scott tapped at Alan's shoulder, mindful that it would send a shock down the spine if too rough, but Alan would get the hint with his field commander voice (just in case). "Did I miss something?"

"I'm maybe not supposed to be here." Alan's disheveled hair was all innocence. The sneaky crook to his mouth, not so much. "But it's not like I was doing anything, and I needed to be here for this. I'm the one who didn't duck. Dad, I was asleep, I swear. Tell him, Scott. I fell asleep right away and haven't done anything more strenuous than lay here, no harm done."

"Only maybe?" Dad prodded, all justification/excuses ignored. "Nice try with the shower distract, kiddo. Bed. Now. Before I tie you to a bed in the sick room and put you back on the DL for another month."

Scott kept his elbow on his knee to brace himself while Alan used his hand to lever himself up. It was obvious at the strain on his brother's face that the shower hadn't done a damn bit of good, and he'd be hurting a whole lot more tomorrow, today, whenever they were all up. Ouch. Once Alan was safely on his feet, Scott squeezed his wrist, pulling on him until Alan dropped his ear next to Scott's mouth.

"Use your head."

Alan nodded at Scott's throat. "Are you okay?"

"It's fine. I'm not kidding. Live to fight another day, Al."

Alan straightened and closed his eyes, the guilt apparent in how he curled his lips against his teeth. He seemed to struggle with something, but a grunt from Dad behind him set him back on edge, all trace of the once-innocent child gone. It couldn't feel too nice on his jaw, but he said between clenched teeth, "Yeah. Come to my room when you're done?"

His arm acting like a railroad block, Dad and his ridiculously powerful hearing put an end to that idea right then and there by pointing toward the door. "Bed, buster. Do not pass go; do not collect two hundred dollars."

"It won't take long. And if I'm asleep by the time he gets there — "

Dad's grip visibly tightened on Alan's arm.

"Dad, I'm okay."

Dad raised one eyebrow at Alan, demanding truth.

"We're okay."

Scott emphatically popped his eyes out. Why Alan couldn't leave well enough alone some days was beyond him. Yes, he would stop by the room. Yes, they would probably end up talking well into the morning like they usually did when Alan needed it. There was no reason Dad had to know, but now their father would probably be doing security checks of their doors every five minutes until they gave in.

"Fine." Message received, Alan rolled his eyes for Dad's benefit and took off without another word about it. He raised his arm up as close to shoulder height as it would probably go, bending it at the elbow in a sharp, one wave gesture of good night at everyone. "Later, 'gators."

"'Night, Alan," Virgil and John both called.

When Alan was gone, Dad fell into his seat on the sofa. He pinched at the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, crinkling the lines around his eyes that much thicker. "I'm going to have to hire a full time doctor for around here just for him, I swear. John, short list me."

Scott didn't think Dad actually meant to say it out loud, so he shook his head ever so slightly in John's screen direction. Not that the sentiment wasn't accurate or unwarranted, but it had been a long enough night. The last thing they needed was for Dad to pile on with family medical problems when post-rescue adrenaline could only keep them awake and coherent for so long.

It wasn't exactly the tack Scott would've used to redirect their father's attentions, but John asked from his safe distance of, oh, a geo-freaking-stationary orbit, "Is Gordon all right, Dad?"

Because, you know, speaking of his children needing a full time doctor to cater to their injuries…

Dad's hand fell from his face, scrubbing the jaw scruff with his knuckles down along the way. "Kyrano's having a hard time relaxing the muscle, but Gordon insists it'll be fine in a few hours. He didn't ask for anything stronger than Tylenol, his heating pad, and some tea. Do one of you want to tell me exactly how he strained it in the first place?"

Scott winced inwardly at the memory of hearing the incident over their radios. The hard part of the rescue should've been over. Gordon had expertly done his job, docking with the dead-in-the-water tourist submarine that had (they still had no idea how) managed to get itself said dead in an old World War II minefield. It had been tedious work threading 'Four through the floating bomb balloons without detonating the explosives, but even that hadn't bothered Gordon. The family fish had incredible patience when he needed it. Once on board, he'd managed to, with some quick backup conference with John, sync control of the vessel's systems enough to tow her out while still fielding the munitions. It should've been over and done with.

But civilians in life-threatening situations were rarely predictable. There were those who were incredibly helpful to IR's personnel, keeping the people with them calm, shushing scared children and adults alike, and assessing injuries to the best of their abilities before 'One ever landed. There were those who were simply quiet and grateful, sometimes managing to get the _Thank you_ out when they were handed off to the proper authorities post-rescue. There were the ones like the nervous father who clocked Alan when there was no right-then-and-there word on his twin third graders aboard the sub.

Then there was the guy tonight who was so far gone in his fear and claustrophobia that the vessel's captain asked Gordon to take a med check of him before he returned to 'Four to get them the hell back to dry land. It turned out Thuy, they'd been told his name was, either had military or ninja alien training because he swept his leg out so fast Gordon didn't have a chance to counter. Thuy had him on his back, left knee bent awkwardly to the side and serrated blade to his throat.

The dull _whoof!_ of Gordon's back hitting the metal floor had been excruciating to hear over 'One's speakers. It didn't matter how many years it had been since either the hydrofoil thing or the rebar cluster; when Gordon went down, every sound was excruciating.

Gordon had had his audio running the entire time through his watch, so he'd been able to calmly tell them he was golden even with the knife to his throat, but still. It had been a little too sketchy for Scott's future nightmares.

But telling Dad that? The man had been so edgy the last thirty-some hours that Scott had no doubt seeing or hearing how much they'd all hurt with Gordon was not the way to go. It wasn't like he hadn't seen Gordon himself, talked to him himself, and probably driven Gordon to kicking their father with his spasming leg to back him off all by himself. There was no upside to piling on.

"Nothing Gordon couldn't handle." Scott met his father's eyes, daring him to see any different. Nope, no hypocrisy there at all.

Dad blinked first, like Scott knew he would. Anxious father or Boss, it didn't matter; he was a week coming off a bad flu bug and too exhausted to see his own exhaustion to do any different. Dad clapped his hands on his thighs. "You know what? You guys all need sleep, too. Go on to bed. We can do this some other time."

John asked "Dad?" with the _What the hell?_ rather clear in his voice. A quick glance at Virgil said he was thinking the same thing. Scott was careful to keep his expression easy, if tired.

"Really, go. You need the rest after the last few days. You're taking the weekend off, by the way. Wherever you want, although with as pale as you're looking these days, John, I'm suggesting the beach. Miami, maybe? Water therapy would be good for Gordon and Alan, too. Be ready to talk itinerary for the weekend over lunch if you can all be up and coherent by then. I want arrangements made by the end of the day, east coast time, just to make sure everything is sec-ttled. I don't want you boys getting there without all your bases covered."

Scott glanced at Virgil to see if he'd heard it, too. There had been a distinct break between "want" and "you boys", along with what was a quick change in word choice, as if he realized he was in the middle of saying something he truly shouldn't. Virgil casually gripped the arm of the loveseat to lever himself up and out of it, but not before he flashed his middle and index finger then index finger on the edge like a catcher giving his pitcher the pitch signal. He'd heard it, too, then.

"Sure, Dad. A weekend would be nice." Virgil stopped close enough to Dad to clap him on the shoulder. No one in this family went to bed without giving the others at least a "good night." People like Thuy or, god help them, The Hood and his people meant they would never be able to put themselves in a position where they would regret the next day not showing each other something resembling affection. Mom and Grandpa had taught them that. So had Scott. And Virgil. And Gordon. And John and Alan. Every civilian they saved whose loved ones they couldn't. Different occasions all, different circumstances all, but lessons each and every godforsaken one.

Virgil whispered something to their father meant only for them. It put a smile on Dad's face. His gentle "Get some sleep, Virg" sounded an awful lot like words they didn't usually full-on say. So did Jeff's wishes for sleep for Scott and for John to hold up for just a moment. Virgil hefted Scott out of the sleeping death couch and they left the room together, Virgil's arm draped over Scott's tired shoulders as if to either guide him personally to his bed to prevent sleepwalking or suffocate him in a headlock. John's voice floated behind them as he picked up the conversation oh-so-casually with Dad. Scott had to smile. John would take care of Dad now. It would all look better in the noon-ish.

"I saw the look." Virgil didn't let go of Scott's shoulders, even as they rounded the corner toward the hallway that would lead back to the bedroom suites. Apparently he thought Scott did in fact need a little preventative steering.

"Did he seem weird to you?"

"Which he? They were both weird. I take it we're stopping by Alan's then?"

"He won't go to sleep unless we do, but help me rein him in? He's trying, but he's exhausted. He shouldn't have come with yet tonight."

"I'm not so sure tonight has anything to do with it." Virgil shook his head through a yawn and pinched at his eyes. "I need a kitchen detour if this drags out too long."

"Damn, let's hope it doesn't take that long."

Virgil didn't move his arm, not yet.

Scott elbowed his new barnacle gently in the ribs. "Go. I'm good."

As much as Scott hoped differently, he found Alan stretched out on his bed with a book and too-open eyes. His room smelled strongly of the valerian tea Kyrano practically force fed them all whenever they showed signs of the aches and pains of the job. The cord snaking down next to his leg said the heating pad was under his tailbone (probably cranked to High, too). At least the room didn't smell so much of the nauseating blend of herbs and salves Kyrano also put together. That stink stayed with you for months.

Scott knocked softly on the frame to get his attention. Alan startled a little harder than Scott wanted to see, but he figured that was what he was here for anyway. Alan would explain when he was ready.

"Hey." Alan quietly closed his book without marking the page. He wouldn't need to. Alan just had one of those memories, like John. It was kind of scary sometimes how Alan had become the family chameleon, taking on traits from each of them in one way or another. Scott supposed it was mostly out of necessity with the age gaps. Alan was his own person, and they all loved him for that, but as a kid? Being able to relate to him had been something of a trick. In hindsight, Scott had to appreciate the effort. It had made things easier for them, too.

It made what once would've been a dreadful walk across Alan's room much easier, too. Scott easily took to the head of the bed and asked, "Everything okay?"

"You mean besides how much I want to strangle Dad right now?"

Grimacing at the anger in Alan's voice, Scott couldn't help thinking about how some things never change. Alan's arguments with Dad had matured, so that the things that blew Alan's stack were less about his place in the family as the youngest and more about how to operate within a family with six (seven, counting Grandma) powerful personalities. Not that that stopped Alan from being easily irritated with their father. Those two were going to knock heads until kingdom come and then some.

Scott didn't sit down without invitation, but he did lean against the wall next to Alan's head and tap his fist lightly on his shoulder. "Talk to me."

"Did he tell you guys we're all taking the weekend off again?"

"How in the world do you know that?"

Alan's lips pressed into a tight, colorless line. He cocked his head to the side, curled his lips even tighter so that they disappeared into his teeth, took a deep breath in, and let it all go. Whatever it was, there was a decision forming behind his eyes. He reached for the remote control in the opposite corner of his bed, pinched it in his hand, and finally looked at Scott. "Do you think Dad will keep John like usual, or can I call him?"

"What's going on?"

"Where's Virg?"

"On his way. What's going on?"

Alan didn't answer, but he pointed his remote at the television on his wall. It flared to life, bringing up the home screen to International Rescue's communications system. Another improvement stemming from Dad's attempt to scour all trace of the Hood from the island had been the tech upgrade. All of the televisions in the house were now connected to make it easier for each of them to contact whichever brother would be doing the lonely dance up on 'Five. Anything to keep them out of Dad's office unless it was official business, right?

John didn't look directly at them, and he carried on his conversation with Dad as if nothing happened. A message popped up on the screen's lower right corner, flashing letter by letter in real time typing: TWO MINUTES, AL. YOU'RE RIGHT. GET THE OTHERS.

"What the hell does that mean?" Scott asked.

"It means I'm getting damn tired of some nightmares never ending." Alan dropped the remote and smeared his hand down his face and over his jaw, wincing at the touch of the bruise. "Go get Virg, please? Don't let Dad see you."

Scott wanted to argue. He'd never liked the cloak and dagger stuff Alan seemed to thrive on, but he'd also learned that it was how the younger two worked the best. Alan especially had grown up under a cloud of secrets with the stalkerazzi after losing Mom and Grandpa and then with the start up of IR, so secrets and keeping information limited to where he wanted it to go was much more natural to him. Between that and the tandem pranks with Gordon — and other things with Gordon — they seemed to even have their own language. Secrecy (and the resulting drama of it all) was just one of their little quirks. It didn't make it any less irritating.

His movements were stiff and stuttered as Alan pushed himself out of bed, his back to Scott. No room for discussion, then. The first steps he took toward the bathroom door had him walking almost as roughly as Gordon on his medium-pain days, his torso bent forward because he couldn't straighten all the way up. They'd all been there, but Scott couldn't help the wince of sympathy. It had only been a month since Alan's crash during the time trials at the racetrack. Images both front-page splattered and imagined of that one would haunt him for a while.

Scott stayed long enough to see Alan make it behind the door before he went off in search of Virgil as requested. He assumed Gordon wasn't meant to be part of John's others, but swinging by just in case probably wasn't a bad idea.

When he caught up to Virgil, Little Brother was licking a drip of coffee off the side of one of two mugs. His face pinched at the heat of the cup on his tongue, but he dove in for a second preventative lick anyway. Even though this was his best time of day (you know, when the rest of them would want to be asleep if it weren't for the adrenaline), Virgil loved his coffee around now. It wasn't like any of them had stable circadian rhythms anyway.

Virgil handed the unlicked cup over as he joined Scott, neither of them bothering to stop walking. He didn't ask any questions beyond dual arched eyebrows at the moderately stealthy way Scott slowed and pressed against the wall the closer they got to Gordon's door. He listened for all of half a second before ushering Virgil on toward Alan's room.

"No Gordon?"

"Either he's out cold or Kyrano's fallen asleep in there again."

Virgil licked his cup again. "I didn't think it was _that_ bad."

"Neither did I, but with Alan in the itchy-to-get-back-to-work phase, he and Dad'll kill each other if Dad asks him one more time if he's okay. Dad needs to get rid of the energy somehow. It's Gordon's turn to suffer."

"Whatever we're doing this weekend, remind me to not get hurt. In fact, I nominate you. It's your turn."

Scott snorted. "Your protective nature is astounding me right now."

Virgil clapped him on the shoulder blade, all grins. "C'mon, buddy, time to take one for the team. Generals first."

"I'm asking Dad for a demotion in the morning. Private sounds damn good when you put it this way."

"Right, because you could so handle Alan or Gordon outranking you."

They passed through Alan's bedroom door, both laughing at the idea of Scott ever relinquishing true control of their team in the field simply to avoid a stint in Mollycoddling Hell with Dad. Alan glanced away from the screen to greet them, but the scowl on his face wasn't at all thrilled. It didn't take long to realize it wasn't directed at them, but it was enough to have them synchronously bringing their coffee mugs to their lips to hide their smiles. Scott slid his eyes toward Virgil, who shrugged and nodded sideways toward the foot of the bed. Scott dropped by the bookcase on the way so he could put his cup down. He had a feeling he didn't want to have anything hot or liquid within smashing distance.

John sighing "I realize that, Al, but — " from the screen only affirmed it. This wasn't going to end well, Scott could just tell.

"Then why can't we flat out call it what it is: ridiculous? You have a life to live, and so do I. We all do."

"I kind of think that's his point."

Alan dropped his chin with a grunt (also known as the _I'm not a kid anymore_ whine), as if he thought John was agreeing with the _he_ in the equation. And yet, Scott couldn't help but think he didn't look like a kid at all, not the way his torso curled in under the weight of his still-recovering body when he wanted to be nothing less than recovered. He'd pushed himself too hard tonight, and it didn't look like he had any intention of stopping until he got the answer he wanted.

Virgil interrupted, because he was the one better suited to. He took the head of the bed, yanked the Royals baseball cap off Alan's head, and fit it over his own head, his hair be damned this close to sleep. He danced a jig back far enough that Alan (probably) wouldn't risk twinges to his lower back to chase him. When Alan pressed his head into his headboard, Virgil sat gingerly on the foot of the bed. "What's this?"

"Your father," Alan emphasized the _your_ with a growl, "is a paranoid lunatic."

Without a word, Scott closed the bedroom door. He stood against it and crossed his arms over his chest. He had a feeling he wouldn't like what the two of them had to say, but he'd always guard their right to air whatever was on their minds. It wasn't like he'd never questioned Dad or his decisions before. Still, he wasn't so sure if he was keeping Dad out or secrets in, and that bothered him.

Virgil grabbed Alan's foot and squeezed. "What's wrong?"

Alan waved at the screen for John to see. He was either too mad or too smart to know that if he said it the wrong way he wouldn't have anyone on his side. Smart or chickenshit, they'd have to wait and see.

John sounded like he was holding back himself as he explained, "We're coming up on Moving Day, and Alan has decided this time he wants to pick a fight with Dad about it instead of just throwing a tantrum."

Alan gave John a thrusted middle finger, but he didn't say anything, which meant that, yeah, that pretty much was the truth of it. Scott narrowed his eyes as Virgil turned to look at him with the same _HUH?_ that must have been on his face. But then something popped over Virgil's head, a lightbulb bursting to drop shards of glass in his coffee. His face shadowed as he muttered something that sounded like "Gordon, sonofabitch".

Scott leaned harder into the door as if that could keep even the shadow of mutiny from escaping. "And _Moving Day_ would be what, exactly?"

"Sometime in the next few days, The Hood will be moved from his deep, dark hole in the ground to a different deep, dark hole in the ground." John tossed a pen or something on his desk, the click-roll the only but glaring outward sign that he was just as frustrated or angry as Alan. Damn. Not good.

"Hence our weekend off from actually doing our jobs," Alan added, sounding truly disgusted. "Or have you never noticed how Dad starts taking all kinds of clandestine phone calls in the days leading up to, _surprise!_ , mandatory fun? And then, while we're putting on a show for the press without knowing we're doing it or why, we're supposed to do it without noticing the guys with ear pieces that talk incessantly into their wrists while they shadow us until we're back on the plane home? Oh yeah, it's a big operation, and we're just the suckers who keep doing it over and over, you know, like the addiction counselors all tell you not to do. The man is insane and stupidly addicted to his paranoia. I've had it."

Well, then. That definitely wasn't what Scott had expected.

Nightmares never ending, indeed.

Virgil quietly turned to head out the door. "I'm getting Gordon."

"Let him sleep," John said at the same time Alan waved him off with "He already knows."

"Oh, yeah, I know he knows. Which is why I'm wondering why _we_ ," Virgil fanned a snappy wrist between himself and Scott, "didn't. Alan? He said this was all you."

"Yeah, he told me he thought he might've said something. To be fair, he was a little loopy with rebar rust at the time."

" _Not_ funny."

"Sorry." Alan rubbed his hand over the back of his head and avoided Scott's gaze, which meant he was nervous. Yep, the kid knew they'd be having a little reminder chat about secrets. "Leave Gordon alone, okay? He didn't know anything I wasn't ready to tell anybody then anyway, only that I had started calling it _Moving Day_. He didn't _know_ know. I needed another round or two to be sure."

This time, the lightbulb shattered into Scott's mug. "Like, how long ago was this? Nine months ago, when you and I went to the farm? Is this — ?"

"Yeah, it's that." Alan's smile wasn't nearly as _See, I told you I'd tell you eventually_ as it was _Forgive me?_ "Just, please, listen?"

Virgil cooly took up sentry at the door, shoving Scott toward Alan's side to set up multiple physical lines of defense, as if Alan's confession needed synchronized key turns and retinal scans. That, and maybe to keep Scott from storming off if he lost it enough to quit listening.

His voice was the epitome of calm as Virgil asked (much nicer than Scott would), "How long, Al?"

"For Gordon? I didn't want to freak him out. The Hood isn't his happiest subject either, and I thought I could handle it. He's only known since the last time."

"How long for you?"

"Six years."

"Six — Damn it, kid." Virgil closed his eyes.

Scott's eyes went red.

He wished he could have Virgil's patience for these brother things sometimes. He listened the way John did, hardly a proactive twitch in his body until he was actually needed for advice, smackdown, or whatever. Scott, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to fix the problem, whatever that problem was, sometimes before he got all the information. Was it a flaw? Sure, he supposed, but his inability to dawdle over details often kept their collective ass out of the fire, so he couldn't regret it too much.

Ever the peacekeeper, all Virg had to do was say his name. "Scott."

"All you have to do is listen," Alan reminded him. "You can yell at me later."

Oh, there would be yelling, all right.

On a nod from Virgil for him to sit, though, Scott knew he'd keep his counsel for as long as he could. It didn't make much sense to his natural order of things, but when it came to talking about The Hood, he let Alan run the show. Even after nearly eight years, Scott knew he still hadn't heard everything that had happened that awful day. Who was he to decide how Alan or any of them should behave about him?

Still, he probably should sit on his hands and make sure Virgil hip-checked him if he tried anything.

"All right." He gave both Alan and John his best _This is the big brother stuff I trained for_ look. "I'm listening."

***  
(Jeff)**

It was late as all hell, but come Chime One, Jeff's internal adrenaline pump went to work. He spun in the swivel wingback chair toward the bank of monitors in the closet he'd repurposed as a private office in his bedroom suite. He'd rather be taking the call from his IR office, where he didn't feel like he was hiding in a jazzed up panic room or something, but his Dad-sense was tingling. At least one of the boys was still up and running around. Better safe than sorry with this call.

Eyes bright, smiles on. Showtime.

"Talk to me."

"Jeff, my friend, you really should've come with me all those years ago instead of doing this saving the world from itself thing. The fun alone, man, and you can't tell me you don't miss playing with a little heavy artillery now and then. You're missing out. Two words: Mo-damn-jito."

He knew it was an act, but the smile that greeted him was damn good to put him in the moment, even if he knew, for one thing, Court Ryland wouldn't touch a mojito with a ten foot bendy straw. He certainly wouldn't call Jeff dressed in some Tommy Bahama get up if he thought there would be pictures for future blackmail. These calls were on the most secure line either of their best tech people could set up, and even then they were never recorded. But _this_? Was that? Yeah, that was Fiona flitting around in the background with a rather attractive young man with his tongue in her ear. Wow. They were having a helluva night. Things must have gone well.

Of course, Jeff knew better than to get his hopes up. They were all still working, and that meant the adrenaline could be lying. God knew they were.

Try as he might, Surfer Bum couldn't get anywhere close to Fiona's other ear, the one with an earpiece patching her and everybody else on the team into this call. Jeff almost felt sorry for the guy, knowing he was Fiona's prop for the duration of the op, but he figured Surfer Boy would be paid well enough. It was distasteful to have to do it, but covert ops had its moments that made an operative not like herself very much. Jeff owed her a nice dinner for this.

But there'd be time for that later. For now, Jeff lazed in his chair and groaned, "Tell me that shirt happened because you lost a bet."

"Oh, come on." Ryland saluted Jeff with a rather tall mojito glass with the logo of the bar — Carlito's, an old favorite — frosted on the glass. "You know you want to. Bring the kiddies. We've got the whole floor of the hotel for the next week. The more, the merrier. We can celebrate, I don't know, life? Women? The fact I can pull this shirt off when you can't? Where's your sense of adventure, old man?"

"Old man?" Jeff had to laugh, even if Court was laying it on a little thick. Anyone listening in, anyone who had ever known them back in their wilder military days pre-NASA would think it like every other public conversation they'd ever had. Hell, they probably _had_ had this conversation to some extent more than a few times in their younger days.

"Hey, you're the one who got into the wrong business. Mine keeps me young. Women love me young."

"All four of your ex-wives have said so, yes. I take it you got your man back today?"

"It was a beautiful operation. One of my best, truly. You shoulda been there. I even snatched up an extra hostage for another group. Led me straight to my guy and then some."

Jeff carefully schooled his expression to something he'd use in the board room because, if he didn't, the entire act would be blown. "That'll be a nice payday."

"Hence the party. You know Fiona; that much adrenaline makes her cranky until you get a couple drinks in her. Fun times. Even your own mother would've loved it."

Even though Jeff couldn't see her anywhere in the background anymore, Fiona still listened in enough to say over the channel, "That's because his mom loves me more than him. She told me so this morning when I got to town."

Court snorted around his barely sipped drink. "Are you kidding? Everybody in that family loves me more than either of you put together. Mama T, the junior brain, even Alan's girlfriend. I'm lovable."

"You're psychotic," Jeff countered. "And blinding me. Fiona, buy the man a new shirt."

Fiona's light laughter didn't cover Court's challenge. "Why don't you and your own genetically engineered hockey team fly on in and say that to my face? When I drop your old man ass in the middle of the Everglades without a map or flashlight, then we'll see who loves me. Besides, the hot dog loves my shirt."

"Yes, well, I never said he got his taste in clothing from my DNA."

"That mailman was sure busy."

Jeff knuckled his chin, surprising himself by actually thinking on Court's offer a bit, and not just for the benefit of electronic ears. "Mojitos, huh?"

"Eh, I can't promise Fiona will leave any alcohol in the bar by the time you get here, but — "

"I give you thirty-six hours, but after that, it's all mine," Fiona piped up, sounding a lot more sober than she'd looked while tripping around the bar. No one else would notice, but she did it for Jeff's benefit. It was no secret he needed constant reminders of who he could trust when these jobs went down. Fiona was good. He had to give her that.

"My boys would drink you under the table, kid."

"I'd love to see them try."

Court got this evil gleam to his eyes, one Jeff remembered all too well. It usually meant they were about to get their asses kicked in a bar brawl, outnumbered way-the-hell-too-many to one, but it had admittedly been a blast when they were kids. "You worried, Tracy?"

"You've met my kids. Trouble finds them."

Fiona's voice feigned devastated shock. "I never get them in trouble. I'm an angel compared to them."

Court added, "One of these days, I'm going to take that personally."

"You know what? You're on." Jeff nodded at the screen. Maybe he could use a blast these days. Alan was always telling him it was time to get himself a life before he was too old to have one. "Thanks for the invite. I'll call when we've landed."

Neither Court nor Fiona bothered to sign off the call with anything but a holler at the other patrons of the bar, who all whooped something unintelligible back. As soon as the screen went dark, Jeff sat back in his chair with his head pressed into the headrest. He wished that call could've been even close to that much fun. Someday he'd have to spend some time with Court and his team for real, only to enjoy each other's company without any threat more violent than one of their K&R rescues (you know, fun with guns) looming over their heads. It had been far too long.

Still, Court had everything under control. His team was in place to move The Hood from the current facility to another equally untraceable concrete box in the ground. Other trusted members of his team had eyes on Mother, Fermat, Brains, and Tin-Tin. A hotel was secured for his boys as soon as he could convince them Miami was where they wanted to be for the weekend. He'd had some sort of glitch with an inside man of some kind, something involving and/or targeting Gordon, but he had it under control. Court always had his operations under control. You didn't get to be the best security firm in the world being anything less than perfect.

Jeff had given him the green light. Go go go. Rah.

Miami, huh? It shouldn't be too hard to convince the boys of that. They'd spent too many of their Lost Weekends in Podunk lately anyway.

(End Part One)


	2. John and Alan

**II. John and Alan**

***  
(John)**

They'd talked until the sun (and someone down in the kitchen with thinly sliced garlic) threatened Virgil and his nocturnal sensibilities. John almost felt sorry for the guy towards the end there as he slumped to the floor, his back still guarding Alan's bedroom door and secrets. If anyone could appreciate the wacky of Virgil's sleeping schedule, it was John. Some people simply weren't meant to be up with the cows, as Grandma liked to say so fondly of them both.

He shooed them all off to bed with reminders to call sometime that afternoon with a location. He figured Dad already had one prepared when it was so close to IR going offline, but Dad usually tried to give them the impression it was all on their shoulders to take a weekend off. Getting Ryland's people in place was fairly easy, but once Alan got him really thinking about it, there was always something that made John think they were there long before the family ever set foot in whatever city they were banished to.

Alan snorted at the reminder. Yet another Moving Day, yet another discussion set by the side because none of them (even Alan) wanted to be the one to intrude on Dad's illusions. It hadn't sat well with Alan for the last two or three years, not since he realized it wasn't ending after a few times, but this time seemed to be getting to him more than the others. He still hadn't given John a clue why, but he figured they could talk about it over a nice steak and wine once they got to the hotel.

"Doesn't matter how long it's been, kiddo," John said when the others were shuffled off, feeling the left corner of his mouth quirk up in wry sympathy. "We all did our healing in our own ways, whether it was actually healthy or not. Dad still needs his. Do you really want to be the one to take that away?"

"I guess not. But it's just so — ugh!" Alan pressed back into his headboard, his head centered perfectly in one of the fabric button dips. "I don't know about you, but making me relive that day over and over every time that psycho gets a new cell isn't doing me any healing Zen-type favors. No offense to everybody who was here, but with you guys up there, I was, for lack of better way to put it, the Lone Tracy? I don't need any reminders how close I came to being an orphan that day. Not like this. Not every couple of months."

"Dad has no idea you're reliving it, kiddo."

"Well, maybe he should. He should know you do, too. Or are you gonna tell me you haven't been just a little bit paranoid about every flock of birds on the radar the last few days?"

John had to mentally check himself to avoid looking at the monitor dedicated to his own security. Damn right, he knew exactly where every single meteor, asteroid, comet, or floating lug nut of jetsam was within 'Five's projected trajectory for the next twenty-ish hours before and after 'Three docked with his girl to take him home. Alan didn't need to know that, though, not when he had struggled so in the aftermath of that day to find his footing. Because, you know, speaking of not dropping somebody's circus safety net.

Alan would've made a terrible Dick Grayson. God, Val Kilmer's Batman sucked. DC never did make any decent movies of its comics. Oh, he should dig out his _The Death of Superman_ one of these days. It was probably in that box under the bed where he kept that —

"Go to sleep, Johnny."

John blinked. "Huh?"

"You had that look like you went from A to Q to some quadratic equation soup on Mars in 3.2 milliseconds and have no idea what left you took that got you there. Go to sleep."

That kid. Sheesh. In the last seven or eight years while Alan had struggled through to become his own man, he had meticulously observed everything and anything while they weren't looking, giving him far too much insight into their quirks and how to work with them. He'd become a perfect bookend to how Scott managed them. It was the same way they all did of each other, really, but that wasn't the point. Much to their collective regret, Alan fully embraced his gift (as Grandma called it, rather than how it was Scott's weapon) and pitched it in whatever way he needed to ensure he stayed in tune, which made it that much harder to treat him like the family baby. Equality, even from his position in the family, was a demand he restated every day.

"Is that an order, runt?" John argued for the sake of his own big brother pride. No way was his position in the hierarchy to be questioned ever. Little brothers don't give orders.

"Damn straight. I'm not sleeping until you do. And if I don't go to sleep and get caught, I'm telling Scott exactly why."

Okay, little brothers don't give orders. They blackmail. "Cheater."

"And Dad."

"Traitor."

"Say good night, Johnny."

"See you in a few hours, brat."

With a smoochy pucker Alan was gone, asleep before the remote fell from his hand. He'd put on a good show, and yeah, he'd been fueled by his anger at their dad, at The Hood, at what he obviously felt was a helplessness about the situation that he simply couldn't get past without everyone else doing the same. Even those impressive levels with which Alan could hold his temper these days couldn't keep his still-recuperating body from giving out on him, though. John would take the win where he could get it.

And if he kept the monitor on Alan's room for a few minutes to watch him sleep — a very different sleep from the one he'd treated them to for twenty-some hours after the accident last month — well, no one was going to notice but him anyway.

Five hours later, John himself hadn't managed to even doze off in his chair at his desk. He'd put in an hour on the elliptical and a good twenty minutes with his free weights, which was a necessity with him spending so much time on 'Five. Keeping up with the up and down of his rotations meant he had to maybe work out even harder than the others just to keep up with them when he was planet-side. Alan had had an easier time of that when he'd finally been added to the rotation up here, but whether that would hold once he'd been rotating a few years remained to be seen.

He was in his second hour of mindlessly staring at edits his copyeditor was not-so-patiently waiting for when a light chirping called from the screen in the corner. "Dad's Office" flashed at him without showing who would be at the desk. Either Dad still hadn't managed to sleep yet, which meant he would be extremely cranky, or he was cruising on his tenth cup of coffee, which meant he would be extremely cranky. Joy.

Maybe the edits would be easier to deal with.

John gripped his red pen, a habit he had picked up from Grandma years ago when he'd first started writing for publication. There was never a substitute for editing on paper, as far as she was concerned, and he'd learned to embrace it. If Dad saw the red pen in his hand, maybe the crank would keep it short.

"Hey, Dad."

"What are you still doing up?" Dad asked. Ah, so it was one of his tests then. If John hadn't answered, he would've known he got his way and all the boys were safe in their beds. And Dad had the nerve to wonder where Scott got it from… Good grief.

John leaned back into his chair, waved the red pen around, and tossed it onto the pile of printed pages. "Tandy wants my edits by next Friday."

Dad cringed a little, the talons around his eyes pinching the guilt. John was careful not to jump the gun, but he braced himself. Here it comes.

"I'm sending Alan up to get you this afternoon. You boys need a weekend off after the last few months. Between Gordon and Alan, the injury count has been a little higher than I'd like it to be. You need a break. But if you need to work, I …" Dad drifted off, as if there could be some alternative, but they both knew there wouldn't be. "You'll have time to get them done after the weekend."

"Sure, Dad. You know, we could all use the weekend. You, too. Come with us."

Dad laughed, tired and cracked, so that the corners of his lips probably burned with the effort. "Kid, we both know your old man isn't keeping up with the five of you on these little trips. The last thing you need is me drinking myself maudlin over your mom in the name of a good time. You need to have fun, and that means all the fun. R, not PG, and nothing I want to hear any details about after."

"You should at least think about it. Nobody's suggesting you have to — " A red flash in the upper left hand corner of John's bank of screens called his attention. "Hang on."

Concentric circles flared out from a bright red warning light near — where was that? — Mid-Atlantic … DC area. Even as he typed the commands into his keyboard to enlarge the area on his screen, John squinted at the narrowing focus of the circles as if that could have him seeing all the way down to the itch that had the earth sliding her plates to relieve it. Another series of commands gave the throbbing circle in the epicenter a city name — Devlin — and then another few tinkering strokes gave him a neighborhood. The ground hadn't stopped shaking yet, but that was one of 'Five's specialties: she gave John the time to get the team ready to head out so that when the time came, they wouldn't be waiting for these kinds of details. If she got her job done, John could have Scott and Virgil in their pilot seats before the call even came in.

"What is it?" Dad asked. He didn't sound at all thrilled to be using his commander voice, not when he was so close to shutting the whole thing down for a couple of days.

John didn't glance at his father as he tapped at his keyboard to spread the information across several screens. Dad would understand. Besides, he knew from watching Alan do the same that he looked like a madman at the moment with the way his eyes darted from screen to screen in his search for all the relevant details. When he was able to give his fingers a half a second break, he held up his index finger to ask Dad to wait while he did his job.

When the circles narrowed down enough to throb at him only in what would be ground zero, John flicked at his keyboard some more to direct his communications interceptions to the corresponding essential services. Calls were already flooding the dedicated local police, fire, and rescue lines, as well as 911. Just in case people ran out of patience with busy signals, he directed the signal search also into the neighboring counties' 911 dispatches.

Sliding his chair across the length of the desk, John reached for a stack of fresh legal pads, still in their cellophane wrapper. He kicked himself back to the screens, ripping at the plastic with his teeth until it tore off in a craggy strip. His favorite pen was already on the pile of edits he was meant to be working on. It might seem old-fashioned, but he started to immediately scribble details on the front sheet of the top legal pad. Over the years, he and Alan both had discovered that, even with their near-perfect memories, there was no substitute for a written note when sleep deprivation kicked in around hour forty of a rescue. Better safe than sorry or injured or worse.

To both himself and Dad, John ran down the barest of details, writing and glancing up and down from the screens as he talked. "Earthquake, Virginia, in the middle of what looks like a refurbished downtown area. I'm picking up triggered security alarms from two banks, an art gallery, and a bunch of offices in the same building, it looks like. At least part of the building is residential condos. Oh, damn. Dad, there's an underground Amtrak hub right in the middle of it. And — yeah, that's a school. Damn it."

Now he did look at his father, just in time to see Dad close his eyes in anticipation of the pain they were undoubtedly about to face. It was a brief moment, something Dad usually allowed himself right before sending his sons to do what they could to relieve that pain for whoever they could. John was the only one who ever saw it, which was the only reason he could wave Alan off still. Alan didn't see this part of Dad, not when Dad still went out of his way to protect Alan from the worst of things that were within his control. Just like that, the pain was replaced by a man's resolve that no one would ever know the tragedy his own family had known. He had a job to do, as did his family. Any further regret or sorrow would have to wait until his sons were back home.

On his end of the conversation, Dad flicked a button on his desk that had the warning klaxon blaring across the systems on the island. It wasn't the same klaxon John heard in his nightmares, the one that was reserved for only emergencies involving their 'birds and the family, but the general quarters blare was burned in his brain in other ways. When the others came through the door to Dad's office, they would already be prepared for an emergency that could quite possibly take them away from home for a few days, rather than only a few hours.

"Mole, Firefly, Sleds," Dad muttered.

"Gordon'll need to get the Firefly from Virgil's shop. They were still working on her yesterday when the call came in. She should be okay as long as he doesn't try to go too fast and slip the tread."

"Alan still needs to man Mobile Control, but he shouldn't be flying Thunderbird One alone. His back isn't ready."

John would've tried to jokingly remind Dad to not say so out loud, especially with Alan's anger issues now that he wasn't tied to his bed by injury guilt, but he didn't want to interrupt Dad's rundown. They were all on the deprived side of sleep as it was. If talking to themselves kept their heads on straight, who was he to judge? Besides, keeping Scott in 'One with Alan for the flight would be a good idea for keeping Scott distracted, too. If Alan kept him busy with idle chatter or punching buttons he wasn't meant to, which he was wont to do whenever he sensed Scott was about to implode with future _What If_ s, Scott wouldn't have time to worry about things he couldn't control. For the same reason, Gordon always flew with Virgil whenever he could, rather than hanging out at the pod entrance. And John, well, he got to listen to it all. Distractions, for better or worse, were nearly always accomplished.

"What've we got?" Scott's voice came from somewhere near the doorway to Dad's office. John could hear him getting closer to the tube doors, along with synchronized slapping bare footsteps not far behind.

"Earthquake," Dad said in full on Commander Badass voice.

'Five's radio pinged him, both as a flashing light on his screens and as a light chime on her speakers. Before he even had a chance to flip a switch, a shaking voice called uncertainly, "I don't know how to do this. International Rescue? I'm trying to contact International Rescue?"

John tuned the family back on the island into his own version of active background hearing and focused on the woman who didn't sound so good. "Go ahead, ma'am. This is International Rescue. What is your emergency?"

The poor woman had been caught on one side of the collapse of the stairwell up to street level from the subtrans station while her husband had been on the other. Neci herself was a first responder — her shift's commander — on her way to her firehouse for the day. She was already in contact with the man she was due to replace in thirty minutes and had coordinated her call. She'd have her people, both those still on shift and those on their way out, on the scene in ten minutes, but she could see from where she was that they wouldn't be enough. The city didn't have this kind of machine or man-power. International Rescue was most definitely needed.

"Okay, Neci, I'm going to need you to stay on the line while I relay your details to my team. Before I do, I need to know if you're injured in any way."

"I'm — I've never seen anything like this. I — I'm sorry, what did you ask?"

"That's all right. Neci, are you hurt?"

"No. It's not mine." Blood. Yeah, they heard that a lot. People did well sometimes until they found blood, either their own or someone else's, on their hands. Reality setting in had a way of making it harder to concentrate. But then Neci's voice was back, strong like it had been when the call first came in. "Sorry about that. Temporary lapse. Eric, he — No. No, I'm not hurt."

"That's real good. I'm going to give you a minute now. Just hang in there, okay? Take a deep breath, talk to your people, and I'll be right back."

"Sure, but — wait — what do I call you?"

"You can call me John, Neci. And don't worry. You know how to do this, and I'll be in your ear as long as you need me until the others get there. And when the ugly little punk with the blond hair shows up, if you need me, you just tell him. I'll be here."

The woman laughed, which was all John needed to hear to know she'd hold it together while he updated the team. Switching gears, John heard Dad in the background telling the others they were to be in their silos on standby. He interrupted, "Forget that. Wheels up, and whoever can should doze off on the way. This one's gonna make for a long day."

Alan popped his face in front of Dad's monitor while the others chorused an enthusiastic, if yawning, FAB. He didn't say anything, but he had both eyebrows raised to say, _What do we do about Dad?_

"Bad dog, no bone." John carded his right hand fingers through his hair, but he wasn't sure if it was out of frustration or sympathy. It wasn't like he didn't know Alan was right; this Moving Day thing had to end sometime. It wasn't good for Dad, no matter how much he liked to think otherwise. It wasn't good for any of them, no matter that the others didn't know until a few hours ago. But being stuck between the two oldest and youngest forces of Tracy Nature, he had to direct them both to avoid yet another disaster, starting with Alan. "I'm on it, okay?"

And then, because Alan was always full of surprises, he merely shrugged. "Don't. There'll be some other Day, right?"

"You sure?"

"Who am I looking for on the ground?"

John grinned. Good man. He knew how hard it was for Alan to let things go, especially when the kid was as ticked off as John had ever seen him. Even when they were doing the whole save-it-for-after-the-rescue thing about whatever was going on, he usually grumbled under his breath about things throughout the operation. John could see in his brother's shoulders, his eyes, his jaw, though: Alan knew, if he didn't let it go, it could be bad for all of them. His temper could get them hurt on this one, and that was something he could never let happen. Sometimes John forgot just how much Alan had grown up the last few years, and then he went and did things like this.

"I'll have everything for you once you're in the air. Safe skies, guys."

"FAB," Alan said and disappeared from view.

Dad did his little (massively unnecessary) spiel about watching each other's backs out there, told Scott and Virgil to check in with John for weather patterns both en route and on the ground, and to check in once they'd landed. Alan got an extra reminder that he was still on their DL and was not to strain anything to slow his recovery. Gordon got a reminder that he was to go easy on his leg and to ice it as soon as there was any sign of pain. It was almost painful for John to listen to, knowing Dad was delaying the others dropping into their tubes because he'd give just about anything for them not to be going out on a call when they were only hours away from shutting the whole thing down for a few days. He'd never do it intentionally, but he might as well be the parent taking their child to college for the first time, nowhere near ready to make that long drive back home alone.

"Stop it, Mom, you're embarrassing me in front of the other kids."

If John could reach through his monitor to smack Gordon upside the head for that, he would. But then he also heard Dad laugh and saw his hand wave in front of the camera, shooing them off on their way. His "Thunderbirds are go" _by your leave_ shook with the first good laugh John had heard from their father in almost two days. Okay, so maybe he would reach through his monitor to plant a big wet smacker on the dork's forehead instead.

Dad bent down to be seen in the camera again, a new laugh line etched near the right corner of his mouth. He shook his head, still laughing. "That's your brother."

"I want proof."

"You're too young for that talk."

John snorted. Sure, Dad. Whatever lets you sleep at night.

"Okay, kiddo, I've got them for take off. I'll expect to hear from you once you've got Alan set up with Mobile Control."

"FAB, Dad. Thunderbird Five out."

John turned his attention back fully toward his monitors and the open line with Neci. A light beeping said she was still on another line with her people, but she'd be back. Part of him couldn't help but be grateful. Despite his protests otherwise, Alan still tired easily. The more capable the first responders, the easier it would be on him, which would be easier on all of them. It was bad enough they'd be working with a sleep-deprived Virgil. If Virg had had more than five minutes, it would be a —

A to Q. Whoosh! Sleep-deprived Virgil. Five minutes to six seconds.

Yikes. John hadn't thought about that in a long, long time.

_And he's talkin' 'bout burnin', but I'm so cold, twelve more minutes to go …_

Damn it. Alan was right: that day just would not fucking die.

Out of the corner of his eye, he did see Dad sit down at his desk. His hand clenched into a bloodless-knuckled fist that he tapped lightly so that his finger fell into the gap between his lips. John didn't think he was meant to hear it, but Dad glanced through the ceiling to the sky and muttered while chewing his knuckle, "It just had to be an earthquake. What, there weren't any mines to collapse along with it?"

At least there weren't any missiles headed up 'Five's way?

John couldn't say it, not without giving them all away, but just thinking it was … well. Alan was right. It was time to stop worrying about what happened when they were kids and didn't know what to expect from the world. Sometimes an earthquake is just an earthquake, no matter who does or doesn't get pulled from the rubble in the aftermath.

Sometimes hatches blow for no reason, boys.

***  
(Alan)**

When he was a kid, Alan had been, to be generous about it, massively conflicted any time he was around to see his brothers take off in their 'birds toward a mission. These days, feeling the surge of Thunderbird One taking her flight into the skies, how smooth she handled under Scott's expert hand, there was nothing to be conflicted about. It was just plain kick ass awesome.

There was still a rough pressure on his back while they were vertical, but he gnawed the inside of his cheek to keep from grunting. He wouldn't fool Scott one little bit, but he also wouldn't bring it up if Alan didn't give him a reason to, so Alan was bound and determined to not give him a reason. A month of being watched like a hawk from all angles was enough. At this point, the only person he wanted lifting his shirt was Tin-Tin, which, yeah, now that he thought about it, it would be nice if he could just get full-on cleared already.

Of course, as soon as that happened, Dad would probably put him up on 'Five.

Tin-Tin was the single most patient, understanding, fantastic woman both on and off the planet. God help him.

"Have you called her?"

Alan glanced across the cockpit over at Scott and his only slightly curled grin. So he was being serious, then. Alan didn't bother asking how his brother knew who he was thinking about or why he didn't tease him about it like he normally would. "Every day. Something special on your mind?"

"Little brother, you have no idea, but we won't know now until this thing is over."

"Nice. Really, you asked for a reason."

"I saw how you were moving last night, and you aren't exactly a spry twenty-three right now. Do I need to be worried?"

"I'm good. Promise."

"Then I'm asking again," Scott flicked a toggle for perfectly-timed emphasis, "have you called her?"

"Because?"

Scott just flipped another toggle and waited. Alan ran through everything Scott had said, trying to find a connection, but so far all he could think of was last night. And yeah, he wasn't exactly at his best yet, but he was doing what he could. He was sore, and that super-duper inhuman rock Thing-impersonator really had clocked him good, but that —

Sometimes? The past really does come back to bite you in the ass.

Alan dropped his chin and shook his head ruefully. "IWN had someone there. They caught the whole thing on camera, and Tin-Tin saw it."

Scott clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth with an exaggerated wink. Got it in one, then.

Wow. How many times had he been in that position, watching and waiting for a call that never came while the others were off on rescues? How many times had he seen the people he loved hurt because IWN's cameras saw too much, which let Alan see too much for his own good?

And now he'd done the same to Tin-tin. How big a jackass could he possibly be? Being stuck too far in his own head and memories of That Day was no excuse, no matter how angry (furious, livid, raging) he was these days. He should know better.

Scott didn't take his focus off the sky and sea view in front of them, but Alan did see the admission in the way Scott's ears pulled back at clenched teeth. "She said you've been smothered enough lately."

"So she called _you_? You." Okay, now that was funny. Scott's snort said he couldn't exactly disagree with Alan's logic on that one. (Good man.) They didn't call him the Smother Hen for nothing. But then, Tin-Tin knew Alan well enough to know he'd not take too kindly to mollycoddling with the mood he was in, especially from Scott. Yep, it was official: Best. Girlfriend. Ever. "Is she okay?"

"Your girlfriend loves you and worries about you. I think that's about it. Oh, and she thinks her Con Law II TA needs to get laid in the worst way."

That had Alan laughing harder than his swollen jaw was happy with. "Ow." With pain came clarity — at least with Alan, that was how it always worked. Yes, Tin-Tin was in on it, but she was Scott's in to check up on Alan. Big Brother wasn't any less protective now that Alan was an adult; he'd simply found slightly less intrusive ways to do it. And spies. Scott loved his spies, which would be funny if he weren't so upset by Alan's own secrecy half the time.

Of course, with that solitary "Ow", Alan had just given Scott all the ammunition he needed to smother in broad daylight without his target getting to object. Damn.

Alan had to grit his teeth as Scott put on a little speed. The pain in his lower back/tailbone was amplified by the vibrations from Scott's girl, even with how smooth she rode, but it didn't hurt nearly as bad as the hit he'd taken to jack it up in the first place. If he was careful and didn't try to sit in one position for too long, it was livable. And when it wasn't, that's what ibuprofen was for. Alan would have to make sure he took a few more before they hit the ground.

"Thunderbird Five from Thunderbird One, come in," Scott said, visibly ignoring another grunt from Alan as he guided 'One over a shimmer of an air pocket. Alan gaped at him. Scott was actually neglecting an opportunity to do his self-selected duty and possibly work on that elevation to sainthood he was due for having put up with the four of them for his whole life. That was just so wrong.

"Go ahead, 'One" came John's disembodied voice into the cockpit.

"I've got twenty-eight minutes to the Danger Zone. How far behind me is Thunderbird Two?"

"ETA in thirty-seven minutes, 'One." John sounded a little confused as to why Scott didn't simply call Virgil and Gordon himself, but he answered straight enough. "Something on your mind?"

Scott adjusted their course to avoid another air pocket that would've given him enough turbulence to rock Alan's back like one of Grandpa's horses gone spooked. It wouldn't be much of a storm they were flying into until soon after they landed, but it was enough that, now that he looked at the instrumentation and, you know, out the window, it looked like he was about to have a lousy twenty-eight minutes.

The slight burst of speed and height had Alan breathing just a bit faster to control the pressure on his tailbone. Damn it.

John's voice came back even more confused. "Scott? Alan's watch has his heart rate picking up quite a bit. Is something going on I'm not seeing?"

Through clenched teeth, both from pain and annoyance now, Alan explained in the nicest way possible. "Scotty's trying to blackmail me is what's going on."

"Ah," was all John could say. And laugh. Because Scott and his schemes were always funny if you weren't the one on the receiving end or the youngest.

"Thanks for the assist, Johnny." Scott had a full-on smile now. Jackass.

Alan didn't care if he sounded all of fourteen again as he grumbled, "Shut up, both of you."

Scott's face immediately dropped into business mode. "I will as soon as you answer my question honestly."

"I'll be sitting in the damn chair."

"You were sitting in the damn chair last night, too, buster. But since you've done your best to avoid the conversation — both on and off the island — I know you're hiding something. I'm not putting you in the field without knowing exactly how bad this is."

"I hit my tailbone when I hit the ground. It's sore, and I was walking like a ninety-year-old man for about ten minutes, but I'm okay. I'll grab the brace from 'Two if it gets bad, but it's not like I can't lift a laptop and a couple wires."

John's voice was too quiet, like he didn't mean to say it out loud as he reminded them both, "A month ago, you couldn't."

That stopped Alan long enough for him to take in a deep breath. Even a few short years ago, this conversation would've bothered him. He would've resorted to being upset that they were babying him, they didn't respect him enough to make his own adult mind, it was utter nonsense how they ganged up on him, all of that. Alan hadn't been injured all that much, and never severely, in his IR tenure. Granted, he judged _severely_ by how Scott looked when they got him back from being shot down back in the Air Force days or how Gordon had been after his hydrofoil thing, but still, he knew what a severe injury looked like. He'd never put the fear of God into his family like they had him, but he knew how he reacted when he saw Scott hurt, saw Gordon hurt, and that was in the last few years, not then. He'd hurt for them as brothers, as equals, not as the frightened child he'd been.

Just like his frightened brothers hurt for him now, their backwards way of letting him know aside.

On both the work and brothers fronts, Alan knew Scott couldn't risk hurting Alan any more than he already was. To do that, he needed to know what _already was_ meant. Understanding that, that was where Alan was now.

Being an adult and responsible when, yeah, it would be nice to have his brothers (or girlfriend) coddle him, sucked.

Fighting that natural _I'm the youngest and you need to shut up_ instinct, Alan sighed. "Guys, it sucks, and last night probably set me back a week. I'll be more than happy to spend the next twenty-four in bed when this one's over, but I'll be okay until then."

"That's all I wanted to hear," Scott said.

"Then you could've asked."

"I did."

"No, you hinted at it, I gave you an answer, and you played your little schemey games because you can't take 'I'm fine' for an answer. You're a big boy, I'm a big boy, so let's pretend this didn't happen and get on with our jobs, please?"

John coughed, and if Alan could see him, he'd probably be hiding his mouth behind his hand. "Do I have to be here for this little exercise?"

"No," Alan said as Scott laughed.

"There is a God. 'Five out."

Alan wrapped his hands around the ends of his arm rests to give his teeth a break. "Is this you or Tin-Tin?" Scott didn't answer, which was all the answer Alan needed. "Both then. Nice."

Smiling, Alan leaned his head back into his chair and closed his eyes. In the scheme of things, he was a lucky man. His brothers, father, girlfriend, and all surrogate family were annoying when it came to any of them being injured (yes, not just him), but when it came to their jobs, their security and health was paramount. They'd do anything to make sure everyone was safe. Can't save the people who need them when they need help themselves, right? But the tactics they used to keep check of each other? That was all family. Some of the people he'd known over the years, he wished they could have half the loving annoyance he did. He was most decidedly lucky.

"Now what are you smiling about over there?"

If he felt a little mischievous about that, well … That was family, too.

Alan didn't say a word.

Ten minutes of increasingly amusing silence later, Scott finally gave in and changed the topic. He was smart and didn't go for the other topic Alan didn't want to deal with. They both needed a clear head to deal with this mess, and that wasn't going to happen with earthquakes and civilians in the way. Instead they killed the next few minutes talking about, of all things, baseball.

To be honest, Alan didn't pay much attention to the particulars of the conversation. His back hurt like hell, enough that sitting up straight was uncomfortable at best. Just hearing Scott talk was enough to ease his mind. It always had been from the time Scott took over at least half the bedtime story duties. He was pretty sure Big Brother knew that, and so he just prattled away. After all, the Royals' season was over, but pitchers and catchers report in ninety-seven days. When it came to sports, Scott and Gordon shared a love of baseball that bordered on the insane. The pacing of the game was glacial to Alan, and since even the pitching machines didn't come with a motor fast enough to satisfy him, Alan left them to it. But he'd learned over the years to listen to even the things that bored the living daylights of him. He'd learned a lot about his brothers just by listening.

What Alan heard in between the statistics was that Scott was on a tight edge. It was in the way he talked slower than he normally would when baseball was the topic, like he was forcing himself to stay on topic even though he wanted to be talking something else. He fumbled some guy's name in a way that said he definitely wasn't thinking about baseball at all, kind of like the guy who thinks baseball stats to keep from blowing it before his partner is ready (not that he would know, ahem, Grand Prix). It wasn't like Scott in any way, shape, or freakishly brunette form.

But antagonizing his big brother to keep his mind off the edge was oh so very much Alan's way, shape, and form. Especially if it kept Alan himself off the edge. They didn't have time for edge right now.

Back when Alan officially became Scott's backup in 'One, he'd stuck one of those nifty plastic hooks that promised to not ruin your paint job on the wall panel. He'd placed it right smack in the middle of the _NO SMOKING_ sign Scott had only somewhat jokingly placed near the hatch that would be conveniently seen by anyone (Virgil during his multiple, unsuccessful quitting phases) using a vid screen with him. Alan used it to hang his Royals cap and hang it only, but Scott took it as a line drawn in crayon on the sand, sides taken. Scott and Virg fought it out, Virg quit smoking (again), and Alan told them both they were idiots. Fun times.

He took off his cap, put it on the hook, and shook his hand through his hair. It probably stuck up in a hundred different directions, but hey, Tin-Tin liked it that way. Better yet, if Scott read it right, which he undoubtably would, it would be a sign of just what mode he was in.

Just in case, Alan flipped a toggle in front of him and called, "You there, John?"

"Go ahead."

"How's my girl Neci doing?"

"I'm patching through a set of coordinates for you right now that should be stabler than where you were looking to land. She'll meet you there. To be honest, she isn't sounding so great otherwise. You guys might want to get an EMT to check her out right away for walking injuries. There are six ambulances within half a mile of the landing site, ten fire, and as many cops as they could pile into a clown car."

Somewhere in the middle of the mundane rundown, Scott found his focus. "How's my weather?"

"Still raining, about to get heavier, and I don't see it moving out for another ten hours or so. You'll be right on the line for whether it changes over to ice or not. You'll have two hours to sunset, tops."

Alan only somewhat jokingly reached for his cap again. "Joy."

After Scott set them pillow-soft on the ground ten minutes later, he braced his hands on the dash and surveyed the zone. He echoed the sentiment with even less enthusiasm. "And there was much rejoicing."

"Yay," Alan deadpanned on cue.

"Last chance to hang out in here where it's warm and dry."

Alan clapped Scott on the shoulder, appreciative of the thought, even if he thought his brother had lost it if he thought Alan would ever take him up on that offer. "Let's party, man," he said and pushed his way through the hatch with the other arm, the one weighted down with four coiled cables. And if he had to hide a wince at the tightness in his back, he wouldn't think about it. Nope, that didn't hurt his back at all. No way. He so could've carried both laptops and pack of hand radios, too. Pack it up, mule boy.

"Stop it," Alan snapped when his boots hit the ground. "I can hear you shaking your head."

"I didn't say a word."

"You thought it."

"I didn't say a word," Scott said again as he held Alan back by the shoulder. He took only half of the cables off the extended arm, as close to a sign of faith as Alan was going to get. Of course, that was blown to hell with Scott's shoulders shaking as he walked ahead to where they were going to set up Mobile Control.

"I can see you laughing."

The jerk skipped like a five-year-old. He even threw a little girl hopscotch maneuver in there, switching foot to foot in what Alan felt were now much heavier boots, until he got to where he'd be in anyone's line of sight. His stride seamlessly became the one the world had come to expect, smooth and confident and everything Alan knew his big brother to be long before International Rescue came about. Jackass.

Alan dropped the cables to the ground with a thud to emphasize his whispered, "I hate you." And then he helped Scott with the straps to get the tent pack off his back to show him just how much he hated him. He even helped get the canopy up as much as he could before Scott sped ahead with the operation. Together, after a quick call up to John, they got the computer systems synched. It took longer than it should have, but Scott was a good brother and didn't complain.

By the time Thunderbird Two touched ground, Alan and John had the various city and county radios patched in through 'Five's systems. Rescue workers wouldn't pick up on IR's communications unless her operators specifically opened the connections, but Alan would be able to monitor them from Mobile Control. It had taken a long time to get used to, and he wasn't sure he was anywhere near as good at it as John, but Alan was at the point he could hear each of those communications in one ear and his family in the other. He gratefully accepted the paper maps the city works department rushed over and spread them out over what Alan thought was nothing more than a glorified card table with a backlight to illuminate whenever he had plans stacked. With John, Neci, her boss, and the police chief all in counsel, they started marking off with red and white grease pencils the areas they knew to hold survivors.

Sensing Scott step off, careful to give Alan the authority with his contacts, Alan glanced up at him only long enough to nod his gratitude. It had taken a few missions in the beginning, but they'd figured out early enough that Scott's hovering tended to draw attention. Most of the time, Scott's was a presence Alan loved, followed, and respected when they were in the field — seeing him walk out of a burning building all badass and heroic was a sight that any little brother would be proud of — but since Alan and the others had a natural tendency to defer to Scott as their eldest, it interfered with how civilians saw them. If Alan was going to get the respect he needed to get his job done, his brothers needed to show it.

With Alan's visibly permissive nod, Scott was gone.

"Your man looked nervous," Neci said quietly at Alan's shoulder.

Alan smiled reassuringly. "My man is our best security. It's his job to be nervous," he said because he couldn't come right out and say, _My big brother is a total badass, lady, just you wait_.

Yep, Alan was a lucky guy.

By the time Scott came back with Virgil and Gordon, Alan had the authorities all coordinated. John had done what he could with 'Five's imagery and sensors to get a start on what may have collapsed or disappeared in and around the buildings closest to the epicenter. The call had been put in to Lisa Lowe, who was only another hour or so out from the scene. Alan even managed to talk nicely enough with her to warn her this one might take up enough of her day that she'd need to call in her childcare backups. (Their relationship had progressed over the years.) All that needed doing now was for Alan to get their team where they needed to be.

That, for Alan, was probably the hardest part. There weren't many times he understood Scott's over-overprotective need to put each of them in their own little suits of impenetrable futuristic body armor (which Brains had yet to perfect), but when Alan was in the position of control, it was enough to remind him how human his hero could be. Every damn time he flashed back to how it felt to get only that brief moment of contact with them on the severely crippled 'Five, to see the signal going out, knowing it may be the last time he ever saw them. Just like island invasions, rescues went wrong, and still Scott sent them out to do their jobs because they were needed, regardless of what it might mean to the Tracy family themselves. Scott had to look his brothers each in the eye with the knowledge he could be sending them out to be injured or worse. He had to do it and do it with the confidence that he was doing the right thing. Alan owed Scott and their brothers no less.

Neci and her other civilian counterparts were watching.

Alan tugged on the hem of his jacket and straightened his shoulders.

Well, there goes nothing.

(End Part Two)

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Devlin, Virginia doesn't exist anywhere but in my Tbirds world. I hope you don't mind. 
> 
> As always, thanks for your time. -- Six


	3. Gordon, Alan, and Virgil

 

***  
(Gordon)**

 

No one outside the family would know, but for Gordon it was crazy scary how Scott-like Alan got when he was behind the comms desk. For two people who insisted they were nothing alike — and no, Alan would never admit to wanting so desperately to be like Tracy One, no way — Alan was Scott's mirror from the other end of the birth order. Tugging on jackets, ramrod posture otherwise unachievable in nature without the help of a dry cleaning wire hanger, spasming fists that brought both control and bloody palms, _Don't fuck with me_ voice. All of it. Seriously. Scary.

If they weren't on their way out the door and surrounded by civilians expecting them to be, you know, professional, Scott would clap Alan on the shoulder, grin, and say the kid had simply learned from the best.

Gordon would gag and say Big Brother was clearly a terrible influence.

Mostly, though, it was that same look they got in their eyes whenever Gordon and Virgil walked away from them that had the most power over him. _Don't get lost, don't get dead, whatever you do, just don't._ Then the adrenaline would kick in and the looks would become mischievous and _Let's kick some ass_ until all was ignored in the face of masculinity and awesome machinery _._

Today it seemed like Alan held Gordon's attention too long, or maybe they'd all given Alan too long a once-over themselves. Gordon hadn't been there to hear what they'd said last night, but he knew everything Scott and Virgil were feeling. That fear, that anger, that overprotective _whafuck_ had been him not too many Moving Days ago. Letting his kid brother out of their sight on this day couldn't be easy. Letting them go had to be even harder.

And yet, everyone walked away with a determined smile on their face.

Yay, them.

Gordon couldn't exactly blame Alan (or Scott or John). With great power comes great responsibility, yada yada, and Gordon didn't envy whoever paced behind the desk. There was a reason he'd long ago taken a page from Scott's book to make an ironclad deal with Dad. Never would he be put up on 'Five or behind Mobile Control unless he was unable to otherwise move. Like paralyzed from the tips of his ears down levels of unable to move. Being responsible for his brothers' lives without the ability to do anything to protect them if things went sideways? Hell no.

Call it Fourth Child Syndrome. Call it cowardly. Call it the smartest damn thing he could possibly do. Whatever it was, it was what Gordon needed to function within their little unit.

Scott knew. He'd been there the moment Gordon made the decision, and not once had he criticized him for it. He'd watched as Gordon kicked the living holy fuck out of the rock crop on the beach, venting his anger at their situation, at the Hood, at Alan's strange behavior, all of it in the aftermath of the Hood's invasion of their home. Gordon screamed like his own soul was shredding like Peter Pan's shadow with every strike of his bare foot on the sharp edges. He'd begged Scott that night to never let him be cut off at the knees again. Never again, not if anyone expected him to keep his mind where it belonged.

That night, that promise, more than anything else, kept Gordon from rewarding Alan with a shoulder clap or thumbs up for letting them go without so much as a visible shudder. Little Brother was a far better man than him. Far better.

Virgil nudged him in the ribs once they cleared the tent.

"Hmm?"

"What's with your wrist?"

Gordon glanced down to find he was scratching pretty viciously at his left wrist, although he couldn't remember doing it. Maybe he couldn't feel the movement through his uniform, especially with his gloves already on. He couldn't figure out why he'd be doing it either. There wasn't anything on that arm but Kyrano's own healing salve and burn scars.

Well, shit.

Gordon quickly dropped his arms and plastered his most cheesy, _With you, boss_ grin on his face. Nope, nothing to see here. Those scars were too old to mean anything, no matter what day it might or might not be. His feet didn't itch with long gone self(rock)-inflicted cuts that didn't mean anything either. Nothing to see here, no siree.

But Virgil being Virgil meant Gordon's charm couldn't work. Virgil's eyebrows nearly disappeared under limp hair that desperately needed a good glop of gel or whatever it was he did to make it stand up the way it usually did. He didn't quit walking, but he did clown the back of Gordon's head hard enough to keep them paced together. He also didn't say anything — _Keep up, shorty_ — but he didn't have to.

Gordon had to do all the talking then. Fabulous. He nodded at 'Two in the middle of the bank parking lot and started toward her with his urgent walk (the one that was purely about being the shortest in the family and having to keep up with the rest of the freakishly tall people). Civilians didn't tend to talk to them if they were walking like they were headed somewhere important, not unless it was a bloody emergency. From what he could tell, they didn't eavesdrop either. None of their identities had been busted yet, anyway, so they couldn't be listening too hard if they were. Then again, the people around them were usually too scared and thinking of themselves and their loved ones to worry about the name of the person saving their lives until it was too late to find out.

Once he had a good pace going, Gordon kept his tone as even and unloaded as he could. "You talked to Alan last night?"

"Scott did most of the talking."

"But he told you?"

"His Moving Day theory? He did." Virgil got a grip on Gordon's elbow that tightened a little harder than Gordon expected, enough to make him think it wasn't intentional. Whether it was to keep Gordon's hand from scratching or to pull Gordon a tad closer to prevent eavesdropping wasn't clear.

"And?"

"If I were Alan, I'd probably be angry, too. I'd be feeling phantom rope burns and hairline fractures and bruises." Virgil tugged Gordon's wrist away from grabby fingers. "If I were you, I'd be feeling every time I zapped your arms up there. I'd be damn angry."

"You aren't now?"

"I like to think we sorted me out on this stuff a couple years ago — as good as I'm gonna get, anyway. Putting the whole scheming and secrets stuff aside, which we will definitely be having a little chat about later, ahem," Virgil elbowed Gordon in the ribs none too gently, "It's Alan and John I'm worried about today. All things considered, the three of us had the easy part that day. I don't know how Alan's been reliving this every time. I don't know how he's doing it right now. I just wish he would've told us sooner. Or you. Somebody."

Gordon hefted his backpack to readjust how it sat on his ribs (and keep his hands busy). It wasn't a bad day by a long shot, but these kinds of jobs with massive destruction tended to take longer with added bonus heavy lifting. He needed to be mindful.

He needed to be mindful about a lot things.

"Sorry about that part." He truly was. Mindful and sorry. Keeping these secrets for so long hadn't been good for Alan or for Gordon, and it wasn't even his secret. "Honestly, even I didn't know anything until — "

"Forget it. Alan did it the way he thought he needed to. I get it. I hate it, but I get it." Virgil slid his eyes in Gordon's direction, which had Gordon dropping his itching fingers like a hot potato. "Should I be worried about more than them?"

"I don't know. Maybe? Maybe not. I think we need to kidnap Dad with us this weekend and make everybody deal with it. Get this guy out of our heads for good, you know? Instead we're here where Alan has to be the cautious one, which drives him nuts. He's hiding it okay, but only because he's got his Scott brain on right now, which is only going to make it worse on this job. He'll be too cautious, too stressed, too stuck in his own head, which is exactly what he hates about Dad and will only make him madder. It'll make him that much more likely to blow his stack. It's only a matter of when. This weekend is gonna suck, no matter where we are."

Emphatic and not just a little comical (for him), Virgil craned his head around to indicate the crumbling, screaming, bloody entirety of the Danger Zone. Right. Smartass.

"Yeah, yeah."

Virgil squeezed his elbow one more time before letting go. "Next time, talk to me without the rebar making you do it?"

I'm not mad, you're not mad, so let's get to work. Virgil was a great big brother.

Gordon's grin got bigger then, which seemed to relax Virgil, too. They walked the rest of the way to 'Two side by side, no clowning necessary. It was enough. Balance restored.

It took a bit of work to back the Mole out of her pod, but only because squeezing the Firefly in there, too, had taken some creative packing on their part (it wasn't like they had time to take everything else out before taking off). That there was a small aftershock rattling the ramp out of 'Two's back end didn't help either. Gordon tried not to hear the frightened screams of some of the civilians clustered up and down the hardest hit part of the site. He couldn't get to the people they were afraid for if he didn't get his equipment. Given the choice, them or their missing loved ones, he hoped they would make the same choice he would: get the hell to work, Tracy. There were families out there needing a reunion.

Okay, yes, he was getting antsy. The run of fires Alan had directed him to was burning ever closer toward the main site, toward exactly where Alan intended Virgil to dig Scott a path to go in the main station and service tunnels. Scott wasn't getting in there to do his job if Gordon didn't get in there and do his. Still, patience was a virtue, as Grandma liked to say, and he couldn't rush it.

Another slight tremor brought a high-pitched scream, but a glance over toward where the sound came from showed Scott running over. Someone was on the ground, sitting up but definitely injured with blood streaming down his face. Gordon divided his attention between watching the Mole's tracks as she took the tricky angle off the ramp and Scott as he dropped to his knees in front of the clump of survivors. He saw the relief hit the injured tween's face at whatever Scott said to him. Gordon didn't even have to know what Scott said, not when he'd probably heard it hundreds of times over the course of his life.

_That_ was why they did this, this crazy dream of Dad's. Because his big brother could calm the most frightened child. Because he'd once been that child. Because never again would they let a child scream like that and not try to do something about it.

That building over there? The squat, rectangular box of a building that could stand in for either prison or elementary school? There were kids in there. When Scott was done with the gaggle on the corner, he would be evacuating terrified children while he waited for Virgil.

Just like that, Gordon found his focus.

Balance and focus, Virgil and Scott. Gordon never needed to be the one behind the desk when he had all this.

Wow, he was sentimental today. Weird.

"Firefly from Mobile Control," Alan's voice said in the small piece in Gordon's ear. Best timing ever.

Gordon tapped at the receiver in his watch so he could talk without having to bring the watch up to his face. "Go ahead."

"Thunderbird Five and I are both getting readings that have the fires getting hotter over there by the school. I'm pulling 'One out of there until you can clear things up. All but three of the kids, a teacher, and a teacher's helper are accounted for. I'm putting in calls to the parents to get sick rolls now, just in case, but head for the west. It's too hot over there to get accurate life signs. It's on you."

"FAB, Mobile Control. I'm on my way."

Gordon tapped his watch out, hoisted himself onto the Firefly's track, tossed his backpack into the cabin, and slid in so smooth, Tom Selleck in his younger days would envy his moves. Probably his older days, too. Grandma always went on about Magnum and how she never should've had Dad watch that show with her when he was a kid. She should've kept it to old DVDs about farmers and their cows instead. Gordon situated himself in his seat, buckling in and grabbing the gear shift, feeling giddy. Yep, this was all Grandma's fault for warping her child's brain with action television. Life hadn't been so slow for her since.

And no, that wasn't Gordon humming Magnum's theme song as he turned his machine in a u-ey toward the school. Cheesy twentieth century television theme songs weren't an admitted part of his repertoire at all.

Gordon should absolutely grow a mustache when this thing was over. Dad never wrote anything about facial hair into the dress code. He could so work a 'stache.

Speaking of the '80s, the school. Right. It had to have been built way back then because, man. Building codes these days never would've allowed for a structure to collapse so easily.

Somewhere in or under the school, something had spread a fire rather quickly. Gordon shivered. All it took was one janitor's closet, and with all the germs and kids in a holding cell like this, janitorial closets outnumbered shop and Home Ec classes fifty to one out of pure necessity. Add in there the sawdust on the Shop floor, cooking greases stuck to the oven vents in the Home Ec rooms, turpentine in art rooms, and schools were scary damn rescue sites.

The building itself actually looked to be two structures separated by a glass-covered ramp, although there wasn't much left of that part. Heat had already exploded the glass out and twisted the iron braces. The western building was missing half its insides, if the way the rooftop crumble spread for fifty yards along the ground was any indicator. Melting tar stink hinted that there used to be a playground blacktop under there somewhere.

When in doubt, follow the stink.

The area where the school survivors had been gathered, where Gordon watched Scott work his big brother mojo, was a good three hundred feet or so from the buildings proper. It was all fenced in by chainlink, so Scott had cut through it to get them all out and away while the fire crawled toward them. Taking advantage of the opening, Gordon steered himself that way so he could send any stragglers to follow along the path of the Firefly's tracks if he found them. Luck didn't usually run that way for them, but he could hope.

Not that Gordon doubted his brothers' word, but he was a little surprised when he started to feel the heat from the blaze so far back. There wasn't much of a breeze to push it along, but he could feel it. Sure, maybe it was a little psychosomatic; he had his thing about fire, and he could always swear he could feel the heat through the Firefly's shields in even the initial approach. But yeah, this time, every nerve in his body felt exposed in a way he hadn't felt in quite a while. He flipped the toggle on his dash that would give him a quick rundown of his machine's status. If it was as hot as he felt, she'd tell him before he melted her already damaged tracks off.

"Mobile Control from Firefly, come in?"

"Go ahead."

"Are you guys picking up any accelerants from inside or around the school beyond the usuals?"

There was a brief silence while Alan futzed around with his equipment. Gordon heard two clicks in his ear, signaling that Alan had no freaking clue and needed a second opinion from John. He was silent long enough that Gordon almost pulled back on the accelerator, but when Alan clicked back in, he sounded confident enough to keep Gordon pushing his machine ahead. "The scans aren't showing anything besides the heat. Why? Are you — ?"

Gordon watched the flames snapping their fangs at the edges of the rubble. Ugly and angry, the fire didn't seem to be moving right. It climbed too fast, ate too much, left too little behind. Gordon didn't like fire — hated it beyond all belief, really — but that didn't mean he didn't understand it. He'd made it his mission to understand fire the way he knew water. He respected them, knew their power, knew their habits like his own. This wasn't right.

"Firefly?"

"Sorry," Gordon said, shaking it off. Man, he was distracted today. Not good. He stared at the fire out his shield, letting the heat suck him in. Whatever it was throwing him off, it was coming from that way, he just knew it. "I'm not sure yet. Keep an eye on it for me?"

"FAB. Thermals show that still looks like your most viable way in, though."

Both Gordon and Alan laughed. "Of _course_ it is."

"Any word on the missing kids yet?"

Alan's "Negative" sounded like he wasn't any happier to say it than Gordon was to hear it.

"Okay, Al, go bug somebody else for a while. I'll check in as soon as I know anything. Give me sixty."

Over at Mobile Control, Gordon knew Alan was setting an alarm in the corner of his laptop screen with Gordon's name on it. "Sixty minutes to check starting … now. Mobile Control out."

He shouldn't, but Gordon felt a little ping when Alan didn't argue over the extra time. He had a tendency to be a little anal about the exact timing — another annoying Scott trait he'd embraced behind the desk — and when he didn't, it usually meant he was stressed. Sure, he could be worried about the job, but they hadn't had a chance to really talk about how things went down last night/this morning/whatever. Considering Alan had pretty much kept his own counsel on this for half a decade, he had to be nervous about how everyone else was taking it. Even Gordon hadn't kept a secret this big from everyone, not really.

Gordon had promised Alan he'd be there when it all went down. It probably wasn't as big a deal as Gordon thought it was, but he couldn't help thinking of the two of them sitting on the beach that morning when everything went to hell and all the things that had gone wrong between the two of them. He didn't think about that day all that often, but Alan was right; now that he knew about Moving Day, it brought it all back so much the harsher and harder to deal with. With this being the first time they all knew, well, okay, maybe Gordon was feeling a little overprotective. That Day would do it to him.

Okay, so maybe it was more than a ping.

Of course, if he was feeling this twitchy, he could only imagine how Alan and John were doing. Damn.

Fire. Job. Deal with it all as soon as they get out of the hot seat. Hot fire. Right.

Gordon gave himself a good shake, stretching his fingers around the controls as his gloves would allow. He scrunched his back along his spine to re-situate the muscles enough that he wouldn't feel like he'd already been sitting in the bucket seat for hours. It was way too early for that. He gave his neck a good pop both ways. The sooner he got this done, the sooner they could hit the beach. Miami. Mojitos. Dad.

Damn it, Dad.

They so shouldn't be here right now, not with all this hanging on their heads.

Fuckity fuckall already.

Focus.

He pinched his eyes, focused back on the flames, and watched the fire climb long enough to know it was going to leave a hole right … about … there. He didn't give it a second thought as he pushed the Firefly through, mostly because he didn't want to hear the flames taunt him the way they always did, reminding him how tricky those holes could be, those vortexes, the hope they give an otherwise smoke-choked man that maybe he can find his way out.

Gordon. _Gor_ don. _Gordon._

He'd had enough taunting for a lifetime.

"All right, you ugly bastard," Gordon muttered, whether he was answering a voice in his head or not. "Let's see you."

Just like a godforsaken tornado, man.

Shut up.

Ping.

 

***  
(Alan)**

 

Alan was mid-delegating to the subcommittee of some other subcommittee setting up food distribution when his alarm for Gordon went off, giving Neci next to him a start.

"Must it keep doing that?"

He shook hands to dismiss the civilian in charge of organizing supply retrieval for the makeshift shelter/reunion center the city had set up in the armory. She didn't seem to need more encouragement than that, which was more than helpful at this point. He didn't have patience for hand-holding right now. All of that was going to Neci and her constant note-taking.

Once they were gone, he smiled at Neci the way he thought Scott would. "Things can get hectic for us during a rescue. I set alarms to remind myself to check in with each of our people on time so that things don't get lost in the chaos if I'm focused on something else."

"You people are really paranoid, you know that?"

_Lady, you should meet my dad_ , Alan wanted so badly to say. Instead he offered, "It seems ridiculous right now when we're only two hours in, but ten, fifteen hours from now in a scene like this, well, I need to know my people are all okay. Can't help people when we're in trouble ourselves, and even we get tired."

He managed to not shiver at all the badness over the years flashing before his eyes, at too many times when rescues had become split focus because one of them had been hurt. Or fallen through floors. Or a cable had snapped and cut a leg or broken a wrist. Or, you know, mutated alligators.

Yeah, Alan needed to hear Gordon's voice right now. And Scott's and Virgil's, but Gordon first.

"Thunderbird Four from Mobile Control?"

"Right on time." Gordon snickered so that Alan could hear the grin on his face before big brother looked up at the screen. The smile dropped at the corners as he took Alan's face in. "You look tense, kid."

"Yeah, yeah." Alan blew him off, even though he could hear how relieved Gordon was to hear his voice. He could've offered any reason, the least of which was the sickly gray of ice-spitting clouds blocking the stars from view or the rapidly dropping temperatures, but a nod from Gordon gave him permission to skip the excuses. They were both okay. Alan moved on. "Any change in the fire?"

"Nope. I still think it spread weird, but it won't be eating anything now but some kid's math homework."

Alan couldn't help but laugh. "She's probably grateful. Okay, man, I'm pulling you outta there. I've got everybody accounted for from the school. Go for knockdown detonation. Take a light pack, whatever tools you want, and go through the Mole's main tunnel in sector four. It's getting rocky down there."

"FAB. Anything else I need to know?"

"Scott's scheming with Tin-tin behind my back like we're all still in junior high."

Gordon clicked his tongue, all shame and blame. "You set yourself up on that one, you know. You really shoulda called her."

"Big help you are."

"Should I pass her a note after physics?"

"Get to work, jackass." Alan cut off the communication back to one way so that he could still hear what was going on — Gordon was a hummer, so there was always something to listen to on his end, even if he didn't realize it — and turned his attention back to the maps on the light board.

Neci must have been in her own little world again because she startled when Alan's hand landed on the library/Starbucks. Alan smiled at her, but he couldn't help thinking she really was in the wrong line of work if she jumped every time someone tried to talk to her. Then he remembered her husband and wanted to kick himself. Rather, he imagined Scott giving him a not so subtle kick under the table. If he wanted people to respect him at the desk despite his too-young appearance, he needed to respect them back. Of course, that was much easier to do from behind the anonymity of 'Five's monitors. Having to do the people thing in person didn't come easily to someone raised on an island as far away from the celebrity fishbowl and people as he could possibly be.

_You won't grow people skills if you don't actually talk to people, dork._ How many times had Scott told him that?

Alan coughed a little to remind Neci he was there and asked, "How are you holding up? Is there anything I can do for you?"

There. Good. At least it was something Scotty would've said. Much easier and with that touch of _I care_ that Scott seemed to know how to do without thinking about it. Alan tried, though, which had to count for something.

Neci barely gave Alan a glance. "Yes, sir, I'm — "

A flicker in the corner of his eye and chirp in his ear pulled Alan's attention away before he even got a chance to hear the rest. He held up a finger in Neci's direction — Scott would so lecture him for that — and turned his attention onto the screens.

Ugh.

"Mobile Control from Base, come in."

Groan.

Please be Brains. Please be Brains. Please be Brains. Because obviously Dad and Brains sounded so much alike, right?

Alan moved his body in front of the bank of screens to make sure no one coming in or out would see and snapped a nail on the screen. Remembering at the last second that he'd promised John he'd let things go for today, he reminded himself that he did actually love his father and didn't want to rip his head off with his teeth. Smile. Nothing too bright, but smile. "Go ahead, Base."

"How's it coming?" Dad asked, sounding far too relieved to even be trying to hide it.

"Slow but steady." Smile. "Everyone from the school and office buildings on the block are accounted for." Smile some more. "It looks like superficial damage more than a couple blocks out with the hot zone fairly isolated between the train station and bank, so we're concentrating on separate exits of the train station and working our way up. I've got all the hospitals in a thirty mile radius on stand-by, but like I said, so far everything is superficial. Mostly a bunch of understandably scared people."

Big freakin' smile.

"That's what Lisa's reporting so far," Dad confirmed not for Alan's awareness of the job but that she was on board. It had taken a long time to get used to those updates for Alan so that he didn't think it was Dad checking up on his performance in Scott's shoes. "Good. Good. And you? How's your back holding up?"

Alan pursed his lips. So much for that oh so thin modicum of control.

"That bad?"

"It's fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I'm due to check in on Scott."

"What's wrong?"

"We'll talk about it later, I promise." That probably came out darker than Alan intended. In fact, from the way Dad squinched his face, it came out hurtful and worrisome. Terrific. Before he could inflict any more damage — _Do you really want to be the one to take that away from him?_ — Alan made the move to tap out the screen. "Sir, I need to check in with my team. Mobile Control out."

Alan closed his eyes and tried to force himself to use the breathing techniques Kyrano taught him during the roughest of his teen years. When that didn't work, he ripped his left-handed glove off with his teeth and jammed his hand into his pocket. It was deep cut, so it took some work to find the bracelet of mala beads the Belagants had given him for his sixteenth birthday. The mantra he used had changed as he'd aged, but the sentiment always stuck with the same theme: he was damn lucky to have the family he had, even when he felt like imagining aliens bypassing 'Five to swoop down and bite a father or brother's head off for afternoon tea (because they're still civilized, Penny-style aliens who drink that swill). Kyrano had taught him well, his first rule always that the mantra should be about something that had nothing to do with IR, where they were all together only as a family like anybody else.

First bead. Pétanque and wine.

Because of that time they fulfilled Virgil's promise to do the backpacking through Europe thing for Alan's eighteenth birthday. It had been the most exciting week of his life, which was saying a lot considering his life revolved around rockets and race cars on a slow day.

Second bead. Pétanque and wine.

Because John was a klutz and couldn't bowl the balls straight at all after even half a glass of exorbitantly expensive wine and disgusting cheese that even a starving mouse would probably run away from.

Pétanque and wine.

Because Virgil hummed a death dirge every time it was Gordon's turn.

Pétanque and wine.

Because Scott still couldn't pronounce the name of the game, especially after half a bottle of wine, and ended up calling it Pentatonix instead. Repeatedly and embarrassingly. In a fake French accent.

Pétanque and wine.

Because Gordon had other ideas for using the hollow balls. Don't get any of them started on whose balls are hollow or steel or missing.

Pétanque and wine.

Because Dad let them go in the first place.

One circuit through the twenty-four beads was enough to remind Alan of all the arguments he'd been given by John about Dad's need to protect them from the Hood and all of the rigamarole he put them through to, really, protect himself from ever feeling the way he must've felt up on 'Five the day he almost lost his entire family. It calmed Alan to the point he could remind himself that, yes, he actually liked his father. He had the best father. No, he didn't actually want aliens to use the man's skull as a teacup.

Dad meant well. Four pain in the ass brothers meant well. Tin-tin meant well.

It was good to be loved enough to be protected. Not everyone had what he did. Not everyone had who he did.

Pétanque and wine.

"Mobile Control from Thunderbird One."

After giving himself a good shake and blink, Alan tapped his screen to get a look at Scott, according to the timer in the corner, twenty minutes early. He was filthy from head to toe, but collapsing undergrounds could do that to you. The smudge under his left cheek had the rusty tinge of blood mixed in with the dirt. Alan raised one eyebrow, daring Scott to evade his question. "Hey, man, you okay?"

Scott's face was carefully blank, which meant he knew something he wasn't sharing but it was definitely something that meant Alan was in trouble. "I was just about to ask you the same thing."

Alan gave his head a cutesy, feminine tilt like he'd seen Tin-tin do on more than a few sarcastic occasions. "Aww."

"Base called me."

Speaking of a death dirge … Damn. "That didn't take long."

"Don't let him set you off. I know you're stressed — " Alan opened his mouth to argue, but Scott cut him off with a teacherly pointed finger. "Eh. Let me finish. I know you're stressed, and I'm not going to say you don't have every right to be. Give us a few hours and we'll all make reservations in the nuthouse with you. At least you've had some time to adjust to it all."

Which Alan hadn't afforded Scott or Virgil until that morning before BAM! Have a new nightmare to hang over your PTSD-encrusted head! Alan pinched his lips damn near colorless now. Unless guilt was bloodless in color, then they were just pinched guilt white.

"All I'm saying is keep it together and I'll cover for you. He's gonna be extra sensitive to anything and everything today." Scott glanced up and around, indicating the mess falling down around him. "This isn't exactly where he wants us to be right now. When we get home, we'll deal with it. For all our sakes, we _will_ deal with it. For now, be here. These people need you here. I need you here."

Alan ran his gloved hand through his hair, catching the back of his neck in a tight grip to keep from telling Scott he had it covered. Way too many people were being way too easy about all this today. Telling him to handle it later wasn't helping. He knew damn well he had to handle it later. He was the one who'd told John he'd leave it behind today, but everybody else? Forget it. His left hand did another round around his beads so he didn't wish shark-toothed mermaids sucking his brother's face off.

"Talk to me, kiddo."

"I'm fine. Okay? I know. I've got a case of the heebie-jeebies about all this is all — as in here-this, not that-this. No reason. Really. It's a weird day, and I'm tired. Too much jawing." Alan wrenched his jaw side to side, knowing the dull pain would make him wince and remind Scott of last night's rescue, which would hopefully have him trying to protect Alan in ways that had nothing to do with Dad. That kind of Scott he could deal with right now.

Scott was quiet for a moment. He did that stare thing he claimed was his big brother birthright (ignoring, though, that none of the others tried to use it, even though they were all big brothers, too), as if he could read Alan's mind if he tried hard enough. Apparently he felt taking Alan's twitchy temper seriously was the right way to go — good choice — so Scott asked neutrally, "Anything I need to know?"

"I'm not sure yet. 'Four's got the creeps about the fire, but he's as off about it all as I am. Too much baggage today, you know?" He saw Scott itch to say something like _See, maybe Dad wanting us out of the field on a day like today isn't such a bad thing_ , and sped through the empty space. "It's the fire. He's always twitchy with tornadoes and fire. Let him work out if there's anything to it or not."

"You're trying to get rid of me."

"Always." Alan grinned and flipped Scott off as surreptitiously as he could and still look professional in case someone walked by. "Go away."

"Call me if you need a break?"

"I'm okay for now, but yes, I promise I'll let you know if anything changes. Go do a job or something." As a second thought, Alan raised his finger at Scott to put him on hold and turned around, keeping the arm up behind him. "Neci?"

To his surprise, Neci had finally unglued herself from his side and his command tent. Whether that meant she'd given up on Alan being able to give her answers about her missing Eric, or she'd simply decided to search him out herself, she didn't leave any indication. Her blue knit cap, scarf, and mittens lay in a sad pile on the light board as if they had been ignored while yelling, _Hey, lady, it's cold out there!_ He reached over with his bare hand to feel them. Still warm, so she couldn't have gone far.

"Never mind." He turned back to Scott, who only raised his eyebrows in question. "I have no idea."

"She's been checked out, right?"

"That's what she told 'Five, but I haven't talked to the EMT myself. I didn't see any outward signs of trouble, and she's downed three or four waters. Her handwriting on her notes seems steady enough. Just in case, let me know if you see her down there? She's our only liaison with her truck."

"Will do. Okay, mark off sections U2 through U7 cleared but Do Not Enter. The walls are pretty well gone. I'm off toward the northbound tunnel. Give me an hour?"

"You guys are really pushing it with the check-ins tonight. Fine. An hour, but no later. I don't like the construction history I'm reading up on for this station. They've had more citations than an abandoned ACME coal mine. Be careful."

"FAB. One hour, no later. Be careful, kiddo. 'One out."

Alan tapped the screen out with one hand and gripped the bracelet in his pocket with the other. Gordon needed to stop spreading the sympathetic heebie-jeebies. If Virgil was this high strung during his check-in, too, Alan would have to pull them all in for a union offer they couldn't refuse: fluids, energy bars, and a good ol' fashioned beat down.

He really should've kept Moving Day to himself because the paranoia had spread like, well, paranoia. Zombie paranoia to all their brains.

Mmm … brains…

Pétanque and wine. Lots and lots of wine.

 

***  
(Virgil)**

 

Claustrophobia had nothing on Virgil Tracy. Nope. Nuthin.

And yet, yikes, these tunnels he'd dug toward the ant farm-like pockets of train platforms had been small _before_ the earth decided to hippy, hippy shake them down to size. The bugs didn't help. Shimmying earth had a tendency to set the creepy crawlies searching for new homes now that theirs were destroyed. It was only worms and spiders dropping from above and squishing under his boots this time, but they were enough. Also? Said boots had been puked on twice by the little girl holding his hand as he tried to check her for injuries before the trek top side. Not her fault, but still, gross.

Gordon was on hand-holding duty when they got to the next sector, that was for sure.

Speaking of … A flare of light in the ever-slimming hole up ahead swept from side to side across the Mole-made tunnel until it settled on Virgil's feet.

"There you are." Gordon called on his way over another pile of rubble, "How many've you got? It's getting dodgy up there. I've got a second lead anchored, but the sleet's soaking right through and freezing it up. We'll have to go single file until it lets up."

"Spiffy." Virgil gave another quick headcount. "This group's ten. Should be it."

Gordon popped his head over the pile of rubble blocking the floor of the passageway. His smile went goofy when he followed the trail of puke up to the frightened little girl on Virgil's arm. He shook his head at her, spraying melting sleet off his hair like a wet dog. Girly giggles had him grinning like a goof and reaching for her with _Gimme_ hands.

Virgil crouched down to get to eye level with the child. (Another Harker. Right. Trendy name of the year. God, he hated that pretty teen werewolf ghost assassin book/movie franchise and wished it would die a bloody death already.) She still hadn't let him see her face post-puke, too afraid to come out of the curtain of hair or shield of Cabbage Patch Kid. The only talking she'd done had been to ask for her brother. He gave her a smile, careful not to reach up and push the hair away like he so badly wanted.

"Hey, Harker? See that goofball on the other side of the rock there? He's gonna help you get to your brother if you'll let me lift you up over these rocks. That okay with you?"

Like he knew she would, she gripped his hand even tighter. For a six-seven-ish year old, she had a hell of a grip.

"Want to know a secret?" Virgil waited patiently for her to show some interest, which was slow but sure in coming. He squeezed her hand again, shaking it back and forth in a wide swing until her arm went all wet noodle. Good. Nodding toward Gordon's waiting grin, he said, "That weird little guy? He's my brother. Shh, now, that's a big secret. So we know all about being brothers, and we're gonna make sure you get to yours. Nothing to be afraid of, right?"

There were tears streaking through the muck on her cheeks, but she looked about ready to let Gordon take her through the hole when the ground started to rumble under their feet again. He immediately put one hand on the tunnel wall and covered the girl's head with the other, curling his body over her to shield her from the dirt rain. Her arms and Cabbage Patch squeezed cobra-like around his waist.

"Everybody hold on to each other," he yelled down the line at the otherwise all grown survivors.

For a moment, his entire world was Harker and the dirt raining down on them in a way that made his throat close. It was only a moment, but it was enough to have it shiver in under Virgil's suffocation category in his _Top Five Ways Not To Die_ list. He hated it when he couldn't breathe.

The aftershock wasn't strong or long, tracking with all the others — he wouldn't even call them aftershocks so much as microshocks — but the frequency of them was starting to pinch Virgil's nerves. This was already a third escape route with this pocket of survivors to begin with. Yes, this was the last group, but the timing was pushing a schedule he couldn't keep if there were more pockets Alan hadn't been able to guide him to yet.

He didn't keep his mouth shut tight enough and had to spit out a grit of dirt and he didn't want to know what. A glance in Gordon's direction said he was scraping a little off his teeth, too. Virgil couldn't tell what color Gordon's hair was anymore. Were they pros at this whole rescue thing or what?

Once it didn't feel like the earth wanted to snack on his boots anymore, Virgil gave the girl in his grip a wink. "That wasn't so bad, right?"

Harker's lips puckered and slid to the side, obviously doubtful of any and all of his efforts. Yep, totally a pro.

"Okay, kiddo, let's get you out of here."

As he took her hands to help her over the debris, Gordon gave Virgil a look over her head that said they definitely needed to talk once they were out of earshot. Virgil tilted his jaw in question, which got him an _I've got a thing_ eyebrow lift, which could mean any of a number of things but mostly that Gordon felt something wasn't right. He didn't mean to without knowing exactly what Gordon was thinking, but Virgil creased his own _You're telling me_ eyebrows. They didn't have time for anything further as the girl's feet set down on top of Gordon's. Good girl.

From his side of the shrinking escape hole, Virgil shook her hand one more time. "Okay, Harker, I want you to stay next to my partner," wink, secret, wink, "here while I help everybody else get through. I need you to do me a favor, though. You've been through; these people behind us haven't. They might be a little scared to follow you, but if you can do me a favor and put on your bravest face for the rest of them to see, they might be more willing to follow. Can you tell everybody how easy it was to get over there? It would be super brave and awesome of you."

"We've got this, don't we, sweetheart?" Gordon took her hands and placed them carefully on the guide rope. She was his now, at least until they had everyone else on their merry way.

With a quick tap to his wrist, Virgil said, "Mobile Control from Thunderbird Two, the next group of ten is on the way up. Have EMT on stand by for one under-ten. Everybody else looks good."

"FAB," Alan answered and clicked back out again.

Virgil gave his attention back to the adults clustered behind him with slightly less urgency. Unlike the jerks who'd attacked his brothers during the last job, Virgil's experience told him most adults could be trusted to go quietly if they moved fast enough. Follow the guys with the massive machines the news had told them over the years had saved more lives than hurt. They supposedly knew what they were doing. Supposedly. Easy enough.

On the whole, this group had been almost docile compared to last night. The first sector he'd sent up tonight — it was night, right? — had been bloodied up more than this last group, who had all agreed they were the least injured. More than anything, they were simply anxious to let their families know they were all right. One woman was taking pictures of the now destroyed architecture falling around them. This platform definitely wouldn't be seeing passengers any time soon.

There was a guy in the back, though, who Virgil had to think was a tad too calm, too quiet, almost lethargic. He'd been watching him the whole time for something wrong he hadn't volunteered. He'd even propped himself up along the wall, tugged a baseball cap over his eyes, and slept while the first four groups went up. Virgil had given him a concussion check in between each group to be sure, but mostly this guy was, well, a rescuer's dream. If only everybody could be this cooperative.

But now that rescue was so close, the chatter had perked up enough that Virgil had to holler to be heard. He wondered briefly if this was how kindergarten teachers felt like when dealing with their kids each day. Rescues could get dodgy when he had to separate them into groups, which meant waiting your turn like a good first grader. Getting people to pay attention quietly without them trying to jump the line or push their way through, assuming that since Virgil was in front them the way must be clear, was a nightmare on a good day. Again Virgil gave Sleepy Dwarf over there a grateful nod before he gave the group the same instructions he'd given the previous four groups, although with the addendum about the guide rope.

"What does that mean?" a smaller, consistently nervous but uninjured woman from up front asked.

_That I'm glad you're the last group because this tunnel is getting smaller by the minute_ probably wouldn't be the best answer. Instead he smiled because that had been the one thing Grandma had insisted they all work on in the mirror in the early days: reassuring smiles. That's what you're out there to give people, she'd say, reassurance even when you feel you can give them anything but.

In other words, she didn't care if they'd grown up isolated on an island. They were going to be people-people, whether they liked it or not.

So smile, damn it, or face the spoon.

"Nothing's changed." Virgil gave them his crooked, corn-fed farm boy grin. That one always worked to ease the tension. "We added the second rope when we noticed how easily the group before you was slipping on the ice. With the storm moving in, it's gotten a lot colder up top since you were last up there. The rope's for your protection, nothing more. If you'll only come this way, my partner on the other side will help you on the rest of the way."

And so it went, having to reassure each of them as they came to the head of the pack. Eight more people passed him before he finally got to the sleeper in the back. It took some work to wake him without shaking him. Virgil watched the deep brown eyes as they blinked up at him, pupils wide in the bright blue light of the camping lamp but certainly not uneven.

"You look confused," Virgil said with an easy laugh, the one he used whenever he woke Alan like it a peace offering for having to drag him from his dreams. Experience had taught him rescuees were more receptive to questions about their health if it was posed in a conversational way, rather than an authoritative, by the numbers kind of way.

"Nah, nah," the guy yawned, pushing his baseball cap brim all the way over his hairline and using it to scratch his head before readjusting it into place. "Just waiting on you."

"Then let's get this show on the road,…?" Virgil tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, letting the question of a name hang in the air.

"Doc."

"Of what?"

"Nothing special. It's just my name."

"Good enough. Well, Doc, you're up."

Virgil held is hand out for Doc to take and braced his knees as the man pulled himself to his feet. He was heavier than he'd looked down there on the ground. Taller, too. They both overbalanced a little until Virgil had to plant his hand on the tunnel wall behind himself. The civilian ended up putting both hands on the wall, too, besides Virgil's shoulders to keep from landing on top of him.

"Maybe you should've been the one to take a nap." Doc chuckled.

"No kidding." Virgil pinched at the bridge of his nose with gloved finger and thumb, as if he could pinch away the exhaustion. He didn't think he was that tired, but wow, that made him all wobbly. At the very least, some air would do him some good.

Air, you maroon, is that way.

Virgil gestured Doc widely, _after you_ , toward the ever-smaller opening and Gordon. Even Virgil was on tip toes to lift himself over the rubble, like he was all of eight again and trying to get over the bar on his dirt bike without crushin' the cousins. He let Gordon laugh at him for all of half a second before snapping, "Stuff it, shorty. Get him rigged."

Gordon singsonged back, "Somebody needs a nap," as he snapped a belt and hook around Doc's waist to keep him attached to the rope.

Virgil rolled his eyes, but he didn't miss the look on Gordon's face that said he wasn't exactly kidding. The truth was they probably both could use a nap considering none of them had had more than four solid hours of sleep. He glared pointedly at Gordon's leg, his mind made up, and put his wrist to eye level. To Gordon he said, "Get us outta here," and into his watch he said, "Mobile Control?"

It took close to two minutes, but Alan finally answered. "Sorry about that. Go ahead, 'Two."

"Everything okay up there?" Virgil waved Gordon and Doc up the rope so he could snake up the slack when he was ready to follow behind.

"FAB. You don't sound so good, though."

"That's because _some_ body kept me up all night. Any reason I can't take ten minutes?"

Alan glanced away at what Virgil assumed were his notes and maps, then came back with an unsure "I don't think so. I'm not picking up any more thermals in your area. Take ten and then maybe head over toward Scott? He's on load six and needs to come up for air here soon."

"Sounds goods. I'm taking 'Four with me. You need anything?" Virgil watched Alan's face closely, watching the way his mouth stayed pinched when he talked to keep from moving the bruise around too much. Their watch screens were too small to see if Alan was shifting on his tailbone, but that was inevitable, too. "Advil it is."

"I'm okay."

"So am I," Virgil disagreed even as he left Alan his dignity. Nothing to see here, nope. "See you in twenty."

Up ahead at the front of the group, Gordon's shoulders shook, laughing, but he didn't say anything. It must be sad to be the only big brother who didn't get the big brother coddling gene.

"This," Doc said when they were about half way up, panting hard and leaning on the guide rope. "This is why they have escalators in the London Underground."

Virgil laughed, his breath coming out in a puffy cloud now that they were closer to the surface. He nodded in the general direction of the similarly deep, steep, useless escalators. "I'd take you that way if we could find them, but then you'd get to walk the steps the whole way anyway. Do you need a break?"

If it was possible, the man lost even more color, but he shook his head. "Half way there. It _is_ half way, right?"

Virgil clapped him on the shoulder, _Good man_ , but he left his hand on Doc's shoulder to give him some respite and dignity. Nobody here was going to tell on him. It was a tough climb for a perfectly healthy person to make, and Doc didn't appear, with his pot belly and apparently twitchy hip, to be working with his best body.

The last bit was a slow trudge at best as the ground grew colder and harder toward the top. Any sleet that reached the ground had started to freeze in streaky puddles right in the main walk path so that they had to hold the rope for dear life while trying to walk up the curve of the tunnel the Mole had made. Doc's worn Converse (bright yellow, or they used to be, but now were sort of gray) made for even slower going with the lack of any grip at all. His jeans were torn in both knees, and all he had for layers was a t-shirt and flannel shirt. Virgil would've asked him where he'd been heading in this weather in clothes like that, just to keep the man's mind off how friggin' cold he had to be, but it was getting progressively harder for Doc to walk. His hands had gone red on the lead, and Virgil had nothing to offer him. All of the foil-wrapped blankets had gone to survivors up top, thinking the people below ground would have a certain bubble of heat to get them through.

As the front of the group made surface, Gordon walked back down the tunnel, checking everyone along the line. No one was talking much, but he had a smile for them anyway. By the time he closed the gap between the rest of the group and Virgil, he looked more than a little displeased.

"The ropes are freezing a lot faster than I like," he said. "I thought Brains was done testing them in the — "

A scream from up front was the only warning they had before the older rope went limp in their hands.

"Well then." Gordon yanked on the rope until he held the frayed end up for Virgil to see. "Back to the drawing board on that one."

"He's not going to be happy." Virgil huffed out a long cloud of breath. "Go on and make sure everybody's out. We'll be along in a minute."

Gordon nodded at Virgil's lone civilian. "You okay to make it the rest of the way, Doc?"

"Sure, sure," he said distractedly enough that Gordon glanced at Virgil over his head. He thumbed his right temple. "I'm coming down with a headache is all. That's normal, right?"

Without negating the rescuee's evaluation of his own situation, Gordon instead said, "Take your time then. I'll meet you two up top." The _With an EMT, aspirin, and blankets_ part went unsaid but understood by Virgil.

They chatted idly the rest of the way up. In between, Gordon updated Virgil as he passed each of the other survivors onto either family members or rescue workers who could unite them with the right people. Harker puked on a fireman's shoes, too, but her Cabbage Patch was quite safe. The nervous woman went from quiet and following directions to yelling at anyone and everyone in ear shot, including Lisa Lowe, about how she should've been up top hours ago and on and on. It hadn't been their smoothest rescue, but things were clicking along.

By the time they'd ditched the civilians, taken ten minutes to freshen and caffeine up, and dropped the ibuprofen off to Alan, the temperature had dropped another five degrees. Sleet tried to turn to snow but failed. Workers and civilians alike stopped their chatting in favor of stomping their feet. Things were noticeably quieter all around them.

Gordon gave a melodramatic shiver as a gust of wind blew sleet right in on top of them from even just inside the shelter of the Mobile Control tent opening. "And that's our cue," he said, taking Virgil's coffee cup from him.

Virgil reached with grabby hands for the cup and pouted, "Slave driver."

The sad caffeine got poured into the pile of black slush outside. Poor, sad caffeine.

Mourning its loss, Virgil asked over his shoulder, "You good, Al?"

Alan pointedly shook the bottle of ibuprofen at him with one hand and taunted him with a full cup of coffee with the other. "Go. Do a job."

"You're mean."

"Yes, I am. Go away."

Gordon's hand thrust back into the tent, took Virgil's wrist, and yanked until he toppled out into the cold. It took Virgil a second to get his footing under him, but when he did, he gave Gordon a kick in his good leg. "You're mean, too."

Gordon tossed him an already unwrapped Hershey bar.

"You're nice," Virgil corrected.

Gordon started with what was probably a smartass comment about exactly how nice he was, but he was cut off by a rather unhappy shout of "Hello?"

Virgil hadn't noticed him before, but Doc stood in their path over by the entrance to the where the escalators should be down into the station. He still looked to feel fine, but he wasn't leaving the scene either. After a short growl and another shouted "hello", he banged his phone into the brick facing.

Pulling Gordon along with him by the elbow, Virgil walked up to Doc, careful not to startle him. "Hey there, Doc. Remember me?"

"Sure, sure," the man said, not really looking up from his now bloodied hand.

"You okay?"

"Sure, sure. Damn phone won't work is all. I wanted to check in with my brother, but he ain't answering. I should be on my way now. Where was I?"

Again Virgil didn't like the way the man was starting to slur and confuse himself, but there was no sign of injury anywhere. Maybe if this brother was around, he could help them figure out what was wrong. "Was he somewhere nearby when the quake hit? We can coordinate the — "

"He's in Oregon," Doc said, _duh_ , as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Right."

Doc held the phone in front of his face, sliding it side to side as if the foot difference could give him a better signal. When it was back in front of him, he said, "I need to come along this way." Then he looked at Virgil and Gordon with a face even paler and blanker than it had been in the tunnels. "You should, too."

"Is someone waiting for you?"

"Attention must be paid," Doc said, blinking hard on every word. His thumb went to his temple again.

"Doc, I think you need to — Whoa!" Virgil caught the man's arms as he started to sink toward the icy ground, gripping both temples like he'd taken a leaded Doc Marten to the head. Gordon took his other side, and together they lowered him to the ground. Gordon immediately got back up and ran for the closest ambulance, leaving Virgil with Doc's head in his lap. He pulled his glove off with his teeth and put his fingers to Doc's icy throat. "How's it going down there, Doc?"

"'ot."

"What was that?"

"Sh-c-hot."

Virgil's hands ran over the man's chest, feeling for some sort of wetness he'd not noticed before, but it was hard to find anything with all the sleet coming down on them. "Where, Doc? Can you tell me where? I didn't hear anything. Is someone — "

"S'ot."

Doc's eyes pinched shut in pain, but Virgil couldn't feel anything in the area his hand was palpating. Gunshots hadn't been a big part of his field training, although he'd been there once when his father was shot and helped him through enough to know what it felt like under his hands. There was nothing.

"Gordon!" he yelled as Doc tensed, both hands reaching for his head and blocking any access Virgil had to his body.

With two EMTs trailing close behind, Gordon ran up to them and fell to his knees in time for Doc to stop moving. His body went limp, and his eyes went dull. His mouth worked open and shut for a moment, fish out of water, until he closed his eyes and got the words out one more time in a voice that didn't sound at all like his.

"Attention must be paid."

(End Part Three)


End file.
